"Well, it's not much of a tourist spot in my time. People still live there, but not a lot. Too many rock storms and they can kick up pretty damn fast, so you want to be in a place where there's shelter. Either a building, a cave -- something like that -- a car, an underground cavern. Those places are still there. Like... what the hell's that place in New Mexico? With all the stalagmites and stalactites?" He shrugs: Earth geography was never his strongest suit.

But he remembers his mom describing some cave place. "And bats. There were lots of bats, she said." He glances at Beth. "My mom. She's the one who told me about it. When I was little. She used to tell me stories about Earth at night, after she'd put me to bed. I liked that: I'd ask for another story and another one. I never saw Earth while she was alive."

He looks down, lost in thought, still holding Beth's hand and he doesn't want to let go, needs to not let go. But he looks up, watches her watching him, and shakes off the memory. "I bet if we were really good at our homework, we could find Cooksfield. It might still be there."

He smiles quietly, though. "Compare sunsets. You might be surprised at how damn pretty they are in your future."