The dust always clings hardest after the sun drops.
Kuzon wipes his brow, grit settling into the creases of his face like dried clay. The wind's picking up—not the kind that brings clouds or a hint of rain. This is dome-breach wind: bone-dry, sand-laced, the kind that strips paint off tractors and skin off knuckles.
He adjusts the coolant pipe on the broken irrigation unit. It hisses to life like it's cursing him.
"You'll break your damn back before that thing ever works again."
The voice comes from the porch—soft, worn, a little sharp at the edges.
Lina, his younger sister, stands there with a bowl of protein broth and a towel slung over her shoulder. Barely seventeen, already weathered by the land. Eyes like his. Too tired for their age.
"Could use a hand, you know," Kuzon says.
She snorts. "Could use a working climate dome. But sure, let's fix the whole planet with elbow grease and recycled parts."
He smiles faintly. She's always been sharper than him. Could've been a tech engineer—if Earth schools still worked, if the Compact hadn't gutted the Dustbelt for resources and walked away.
She walks over and hands him the broth. He drinks. It's lukewarm, but rich. Real protein. Earth-food, not lab slurry.
"You're thinking about it again," she says.
Kuzon doesn't answer. Doesn't have to.
She looks toward the cracked dome ceiling, where distant satellites flicker across the dark. "You gonna leave?"
"I have to," he says.
Her jaw tightens. She nods.
"Promise me one thing," she says. "Don't let them make you small."
"What?"
"Star City. The Federation. All of it. Don't let them shrink you into someone you're not."
Kuzon looks at her. She's not asking him to stay. Not calling him selfish. She just wants him to stay whole.
"I won't," he says.
A lie.
They sit together in silence, the wind howling around them, stars winking through the broken sky.