A man screams at the car stopped ahead of us at the red light. Spit flies from his mouth as he shakes his fist at the driver. The light turns green, and the car speeds off, its engine choking and spitting as it revs.

My eyes meet the pale, raging blue ones of the man as we pass him. He gives me the middle finger for no reason and shouts something that I can't hear. The sounds of horns and sirens—the sounds of the city—drown him out. The noise is almost as stifling as the sweltering heat. Even under the shade of the overpass, there is no relief from the blazing sun.

Steel bars line the windows of the old, refurbished school bus they are transporting me on, so there is no way to slide the glass shut and escape the heat and noise. Not that I'd want to shut the window, anyway. The bus isn't air conditioned, so the breeze through the bars as we drive is the only relief I get from the stink of the sweat of hundreds of students from decades past that still saturates the fabric of the seats.

I lean back, watching the world pass by through the window as we make our way to our destination. Other than the driver and the prison guard, I'm the only one on board. I feel like royalty, riding through the dirty streets of the city on my own private prison bus.

Tall office buildings rise around us on both sides. My stomach turns over, a sick feeling crawling up my throat as we approach one I recognize. The two enormous eagle statues guarding the front door of the headquarters to Abraham Health and Medical Coverage Corporation stare me down. Their eyes watch me like vultures. It's the office where I used to work—the office of the insurance company I embezzled the one and a half billion dollars from, eventually resulting in my imprisonment.

As we pass, I give the eagles the same gesture the man on the street gave me, except at least I have a reason for doing it. "You look more like turkeys than eagles to me," I mutter under my breath.

Finally, the high rises and skyscrapers give way to strips of bars and clubs. Even during the day, neon red lights flash outside the gentlemen's clubs, enticing people to step inside and escape the world for a minute as they indulge and waste away their money.

The yelling on the crowded streets and screeches of traffic eventually lull me towards sleep. I haven't seen the city since I was sent to prison, but I don't miss it. It's exactly the same as when I left.

I'm jarred awake when the old, yellow school bus shudders and breaks to a stop. A gasp of cool, ocean air rushes in through the heavy bars across the open window. We've finally reached our destination.

I take a moment to breathe it in everything around me, savoring the taste and smell of the salt. It's been a year and a half since I've had fresh air.

With a squeaking groan, the door to the bus accordions open, and I rise to my feet. The handcuffs latching my hands to the floor tug on my wrists, keeping me from moving too far.

"I'll be waiting right at the top of the dunes for you," the prison guard sitting in the seat across from me says as he gets up. "If you try anything . . ." He taps the gun secured to his belt. "We've put a lot of time and money into your training, Miss Heart, but that doesn't mean you can't be replaced."

I chew on the insides of my cheeks. "I understand, sir," I say.

The guard nods, crossing his muscular arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes at me, as though he thinks he'll be able to see what I'm thinking if he stares hard enough.

I examine him as well. A large scar runs from the bridge of his nose, under his right eye and across his cheek bone. He's seen a fight or two in his past. Now, his hair is trimmed short and neat, but the faded tattoos on his knuckles are still visible. He wears a cap that casts most of his face in shadows. Finally, he takes the key from his pocket and unlocks my handcuffs.

"You have one hour," he says.

I nod, flexing my stiff wrists as I head towards the exit of the bus. His hot, garlic and onion laced breath coats the back of my neck as he follows me out, practically stepping on the backs of my shoes.

I take the three steps down, leaping the last one and landing lightly in the soft sand at the side of the road. I push my right index finger to the bridge of my nose, for a moment forgetting the glasses I've worn since I was eleven are no longer there. I never minded them because I thought they made me look smart, but receiving LASIK surgery to correct my vision was one of the requirements of my preparation for the mission.

I close my eyes, for a second just letting myself breathe in fresh air as the breeze whips past me, blowing my bangs across my face.

I run a hand back through my hair as I open my eyes. The guard stands at attention, near the small bungalow rising up from the dunes. I haven't seen the house since I was a child, but even in the dwindling daylight, the faded, baby blue siding and chartreuse, shingled roof are exactly as I remember them. Nostalgia stirs around in my stomach, and my head feels light with the overwhelming memories—my sister and I running down through the dunes to get to the water, waking up to the smell of mom and dad making us pancakes.

I turn from the bungalow, facing out towards the roaring sea. She stands down there waiting for me, just a silhouette in front of the red, setting sun. Mom.

I take my shoes off and leave them next to the bus before walking down to meet her. The sand is cool and soft between my toes.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Mom keeps her gazed fixed on the horizon, not looking at me as I approach.

I finally reach her, and pause next to her, gazing out at the distant horizon. Icy cold water laps against our bare feet. The roar of the ocean and rush of the wind beat against my ears.

"What?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. It's all she ever talks about this time of day.

"The sunset, Shawn." A faint smile crosses her pale, chapped lips. "You know, when I was a kid, they didn't look like this every night."

She pauses as a wave slams against the sharp, rocky jetty. The crash drowns out all other sound for a moment, and the tide roars past our ankles in a churning white foam. As the water drains back to sea, it pulls the sand out from under my feet, the tiny grains tickling between my toes.

"It was rare we'd get one like this," Mom continues. "They weren't always so . . . red."

The sky bleeds into the undulating water as the sickly-swollen sun creeps toward the horizon. Vermilion fades to bright orange and finally indigo overhead—a perfect and vibrant gradient. It's like someone has melted a box of crayons in the sky.

"It's because of the pollution, Mom," I say. "You know that. You know that's why it looks this way. There are more particles hanging in the sky now, so the shorter wavelengths get scattered more. That's all it is."

A tear leaks from the corner of Mom's eye, tracing the curve of her hollow cheek. "I know, baby. But that doesn't mean it's not beautiful."

"I don't think it's beautiful." The wind steals my voice, and part of me hopes she doesn't hear.

She pulls her gaze from the horizon, finally meeting mine. She's older than the last time I saw her—the day I went to prison. Her tear-stained face still had a trace of youth the day they took me out of the courthouse and lead me to that dungeon of a prison beneath the mountains in Upstate New York. Now, wrinkles crinkle around the corners of her pale blue eyes. Her deep brown hair has faded with patches of gray. It's only been a year and a half since I was convicted, but time has taken its toll on her, regardless.

On Earth, time doesn't stop. Aging doesn't stop.

It will stop for thirty-two years for me on the journey is signed up for, but everyone else here on Earth will carry on, growing older and older.

I stare into the sun for another minute before glancing back at the sand dune behind us. The prison officer waits by the small bungalow, keeping watch. As a reward for agreeing to go on the mission to Alpha Centauri, I was granted one day's leave from prison to travel anywhere I wanted—within reason—and say goodbye to my friends and family. Mom and I aren't close, but she's the only person I have, and I know I'm about all she has left, too. I owe it to her to at least say goodbye.

"Lucy always loved the sunset," Mom says.

A chill prickles the back of my neck, traveling down my spine like spiders on parade. Tears burn behind my eyes. "I know."

A wave laps past our feet, and something tickles my toe. I pick up the small, spiral shell brushing over my foot. It's only about the size of my fingernail, and it's white and rough like a lost tooth. A tiny hole has been drilled through the top of it. When I was little, Lucy told me mermaids made those holes so they could string their necklaces together, and if you found a shell like this, that meant a mermaid had lost it.

I clutch the shell in my hand. Even though I know now the holes are drilled by other creatures eating the mollusk within, for some reason, I don't want to let it go. It reminds me of her.

This house by the sea was where we spent every summer growing up. The best memories of my life are Lucy and I playing in the sand and swimming in the waves. We laughed as we built sandcastles together and ate ice cream, letting it drip down our arms all the way to our elbows.

When I was eight, she finally decided I was old enough to walk out on the jetty with her and hunt for tiny crabs and starfish. I was scared, but I went anyway. When I was with Lucy, I didn't feel so afraid of the world. She is the bravest person I've ever known, and being with her made me brave, too.

The first day she took me with her onto the jetty, I slipped on an algae-covered rock and skinned my knee. We lied to Mom and Dad and pretended we hadn't been out on the jetty because it was "off limits." If they knew, we'd never be able to go back. We pinky swore to never tell.

I'm sure Mom and Dad knew where we'd been, regardless, but they pretended they didn't. Kids have to have adventures, right?

I breathe in the salty, fresh ocean air. This is the only place on Earth I love. Everywhere else, technology has taken over. I think about the noisy busy streets on the long drive here. I think about the man shouting at passing cars and flipping me off for no reason. All throughout the city, sirens blared, and people shouted from their car windows at each other.

In the cities, population densities are rising every day. People swarm the streets like locusts, sweating in the ever-growing heat. The more crowded it becomes, the angrier everyone gets with each other. This beach is the one place that time forgot.

In a few decades, it will be gone. The last of the icecaps will melt, and the tides will finally rise high enough to reach our dunes. One fateful day, a storm will roll through, and the last remnants of my childhood will be swept away into the sea.

I won't be here to see it happen, though, so I suppose it doesn't matter.

"When do you leave?" Mom breaks me from my spell as another wave crashes into the beach. This time, the water reaches all the way up our shins before ebbing.

"A week," I say. "Six more days of training, then a day of orientation where I finally meet the rest of the crew."

"I don't understand why you haven't been training with them the whole time," she says. "Why have they kept you separated through all of it?"

I shrug. "We're criminals, Mom. I guess they don't want us conspiring together before the mission begins."

"I guess so," she says. "Will I hear from you when you land?"

I bite down on my tongue. I'm not allowed to tell her where we are going—that information is classified. For all she knows, I'm going on a four-year journey to one of Jupiter's moons. In a few months, she'll be informed that the spaceship has had a major malfunction, and all of the crew have perished.

"Of course you will, Mom," I lie. "I'll send a message as soon as we land."

She nods. "I'm proud of you, you know? What you did was wrong, but I understand why you did it." A pause. "This is your second chance, Shawn, and I'm proud of you for taking it. Your dad would be proud of you, too. So would Lucy."

We are both quiet for a moment. This is the most motherly she's been for me in years. It's like she's having a moment of clarity. At first, I was almost dreading having to see her, but now that I'm with her, I wish I didn't have to leave so soon.

If I'd fought harder for her after Lucy died, could I have pulled her out of this sooner? Could I have saved her?

What about me? Would my life have taken a different course if I'd forced myself to be better? If I'd forced myself to change?

It's not too late, Shawn. I remind myself.

Mom is right. This is my second chance.

"Thank you," I finally whisper.

Mom turns to me, a somber smile on her thin lips. Then, she pulls me into a hug. I freeze—caught off guard. I don't like being touched, even by my family. But, after a second, I allow myself to relax into her warm body.

"I love you, Shawn," she says.

"I love you, too."

As we embrace, the last traces of sunlight glitter against the ocean's rippling surface. All at once, it occurs to me that this will be the last time I ever see her. I'll never see the beach. I'll never again feel the ocean breeze rushing through my hair, or the water lapping against my ankles.

This will be the last time I ever see the sun set on Earth.

I'll never be returning home.