Day One of Night

The sun bleeds out along the horizon and does not rise again. You watch it go from the observation slit, breath fogging the glass, and mark the time in your logbook: 13:47, the last daylight until September.

The radio answers your hail with static. McMurdo does not. The supply manifest on the screen lists ninety days of rations — half of what should be there. Ninety. You read it three times before the number stops rearranging itself.

Outside, the wind begins its long howl. You are alone, and the dark has only just started.