The Sense That Was Not on the Wall

Looking made Soren worse.

That was the first problem.

He stood in the mock spacecraft tunnel with a silver patch clipped to his belt, one glove on a rail, one boot on a yellow square, and his face turned down so hard his neck ached. The tunnel was only cardboard-colored plastic and padded corners, but the gloves were thick like real suit gloves, and the helmet ring around his shoulders made it hard to see his feet.

The coach clapped once from outside the tunnel. She was wearing a headset and checking a tablet every few seconds.

“Seal the leak before the timer runs out,” she said. “Eyes open for practice. Lights out for the real run. Astronauts stay calm.”

Soren did not answer. He was busy trying to remember where his left knee was.

His notebook was in the cubby with his shoes, because the suit gloves could not turn pages. He had drawn the tunnel from above. Three handrails on the left. Two on the right. Leak panel past the blue stripe. Kneel, unclip patch, press flat.

But from inside the tunnel, the drawing had become useless. His left glove blocked the blue stripe. His right elbow knocked the wall. He looked at his boot and lost his hand. He looked at his hand and his boot slid off the square.

The timer made a cheerful little beep.

“Try again,” the coach said. “Don’t overthink it.”

Soren disliked that sentence. It was usually said by people who had already thought of something and forgotten how.

He tried again.

He watched his right hand reach for the rail. The hand seemed too far away, even though it was attached to him. His glove closed around empty air. He corrected, grabbed the rail too hard, twisted his shoulder, and banged the helmet ring against the padding.

Beep.

Outside the tunnel, the next group was laughing, not cruelly, just with the bright nervousness of people waiting their turn.

The coach looked at the tablet. “We’re behind schedule. One more practice, then blackout.”

“I’m not ready,” Soren said.

“You know the steps.”

“That’s not the same.”

She smiled in the way adults smiled when they did not have time to ask what you meant. “Your body knows more than you think.”

Then she turned to answer someone else’s question about helmets.

Soren stayed crouched in the tunnel.

Your body knows more than you think.

That sounded like a poster sentence. There was an actual poster near the entrance, beside the rack of gloves. Soren had read it while everyone else was choosing helmet colors. Soren had liked the word because it looked too large for what it did. Pro-pri-o-cep-tion. He had copied it in his notebook, then drawn a hand touching a nose with eyes closed.

Now, inside the tunnel, the word did not feel large enough.

The coach called, “Blackout run. Ready?”

“No,” Soren said.

The lights went out anyway.

Not all the way. A red safety line glowed along the floor, but inside the helmet ring, everything near him vanished. The rail under his left glove became the only solid thing in the world.

The timer beeped once.

Soren did not move.

He could quit. The coach had said the stop word earlier. Anyone could say it. The door would open. The lights would rise. He would climb out and pretend he did not care.

Instead he lifted his right hand away from the wall.

In the dark, he opened the glove. Closed it. Opened it again.

He could not see his fingers, but he knew when they bent. Not as a picture. Not as words. More like a tug from inside the hand.

He touched his thumb to his first finger.

Then his second.

Then his third.

Then his fourth.

The suit glove made the touches thick and clumsy, but the order was there. His hand knew its own shape in the dark.

The timer beeped again.

Soren raised his right elbow. He stopped when it reached the height of his shoulder. He did not look. He could feel the angle arrive.

He lowered it. Raised it again.

The dark did not become empty. It filled with distances that had no color.

His left knee was bent sharply under him. His right foot was turned slightly outward. His shoulder was too high. His jaw was clenched. He had known all of that without seeing any of it.

He let his shoulder drop.

The tunnel changed.

Not the plastic walls. Not the red safety line. The inside of him.

There were messages everywhere.

Soren moved one piece at a time, not by checking, but by asking. Left glove on rail. Right knee forward until the stretch came behind it. Boot flat. Hips low enough that the helmet ring cleared the ceiling pad. He slid forward.

His glove found the blue stripe because his fingers were still counting the rails. One. Two. Three.

At the third rail, he stopped.

The leak panel was supposed to be on the right.

He had missed it twice in practice by swinging his hand too wide while looking for it. This time he kept his left hand fixed to the rail and let his right elbow fold close to his ribs. Shoulder turns first, he thought, but not in words exactly. The movement came before the sentence.

His right glove touched a round metal edge.

The panel hissed softly, a fake air leak no stronger than a whisper.

The patch was clipped to his belt.

That was the next problem.

He could not see the clip. He reached down and slapped his hip twice, finding only suit fabric.

The timer began beeping faster.

Soren held still.

Where was the patch when he had started? Right side. Belt loop. Flat square hanging against thigh. If he twisted to look, he would lose the panel. If he took his left hand off the rail, he would lose the tunnel.

He kept his right glove on the hissing panel and moved his left hand down his own suit, shoulder, ribs, belt. His fingers found the clip.

The glove was too thick.

He tried to pinch. Failed.

The beeping sped up.

He turned the clip sideways, because he could feel the hinge press into the glove. He pushed with the heel of his hand instead of his fingers.

The patch dropped against his thigh.

He caught the corner between both gloves, right hand leaving the panel for one breath. The hiss marked the place. He brought the patch up, not fast, not smooth, but without looking.

He pressed it flat.

The hissing stopped.

So did the timer.

For a moment nobody outside spoke.

Then the hatch opened, and white exhibit light spilled across his gloves.

The coach leaned in, tablet tucked under one arm. “Nice recovery,” she said. “See? Confidence.”

Soren looked past her at the poster on the wall. The drawn lines ran from the cartoon kid’s ankle, wrist, elbow, knee, up into the small folded shape at the back of the brain.

“It wasn’t confidence,” he said.

The coach glanced at the poster, then at him. Her smile changed, not bigger, just less hurried. “What was it?”

Soren stepped out of the tunnel. His legs felt bright and strange, like they had been talking for years and had only now been overheard.

“Can the lights go off again?” he asked.

The coach looked at the waiting group, then at the timer, then at the tunnel. She sighed, but she was smiling now. “Thirty seconds.”

Soren climbed back inside before she changed her mind.

The hatch closed. The tunnel went dark.

In the dark, Soren lifted both hands and brought his fingertips together, once, twice, three times, without looking.