Anya has this profound ability of making you feel alive in the stagnancy of the Tulpar.

No matter what it is—whether it be sorting through the drug cabinet, coming up with questions for the psychoanalysis exam, or even applying a bandaid on an open wound, she has this effect, this proficiency in filling you with warmth, grounding you in a moment that feels like home. She makes life feel familiar while being cooped up in a barren spacecraft.

Anya is her own brand of magic.

She laughs as you sit across from her, cross-legged on her bed, late into the night. Conversation ebbs and flows, easy like a Sunday morning.

“So technically, yes, I did cheat my way into med school. But I’m a changed woman.” Her cheeks are flushed. She shrugs. “These days, I could never pull off something like that.”