Marjorie slides off her space suit.
“Glenda, play: Home.”
“Certainly dear,” says Glenda, her spaceship.
Glenda’s red lights dim. Marjorie slides into her only remaining Earth dress, made of spider silk.
Glenda’s mirror-scaled walls rotate and flash; rounded ceiling becomes sky, rounded walls become Marjorie’s meadow. Glenda’s vents rustle Marjorie’s hair like a spring breeze. Her sound-system plays Marjorie’s children laughing.
And for a moment, just a single moment, Marjorie is home, not light years away.