Page 83 of The Lottery

“I will not let you go. Not now. Not ever. The rules I made were rooted in algorithms, not humanity. We cannot grow into something worthy of all this as a species if we do not embrace the purest parts of ourselves. What we have… this is what it was all for.”

Even as I speak the words, I am not sure I believe I am saying them. I will fight for love and I will never let Azalea leave my side.

How I will do that while leading this society gives me pause.

For perhaps the first time in my life, I ignore the nagging of my logical brain, giving into the clear designs of my heart.

There is Azalea.

Then there is everything else.

Before we can finish packing, our hands find each other’s bodies and we come together once again. We are both insatiable, unable to get our fill of one another, and I marvel that it took a move to Mars to find the woman my heart could not say no to.

By late morning the sun has melted away the snow that blocked our cave entrance. We dress silently, struggling to accept the end of this fever dream of desire and deep intimacy merged into one.

Finally, when the sun is high and our rations dwindling, we leave the cave. I make note of our location, hopeful Azalea and I can someday return to this special place.

It takes a few moments to locate the rover, which has become a tiny bump in a frosty white hill.

“Do you think it snowed this hard back at the camp?” Azalea asks as we trudge toward our vehicle.

“I cannot say. The weather here is unpredictable. We are further from the equator, though, so I expect we saw the worst of it.”

I watch as Azalea takes in the world around her, eyes alight with wonder. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are red with cold, contrasting the white of her teeth as she flashes a smile.

I grin, my heart ablaze with appreciation for this beautiful creature. Without her I might get lost in the minutia of survival, failing to enjoy the splendor of this new planet.

Unfortunately, now is not the time for sightseeing.

I dust snow away from the driver’s side door so I can start the truck and melt away the icy buildup on the hood. Duty and responsibility have been on pause for a sol and a half—the best sol and a half of my life, to be certain—but now we must return. The reality of a destroyed cargo vessel means hunting and gathering become our colony’s top priority, and I feel a rush of anxiety thinking about what has or has not been accomplished while I have been away.

I push open the passenger door, sending a wall of snow crashing down around Azalea, who laughs and throws a snowball at me. I pull her into the cab, pressing against her body and kissing her one last time before seatbelts and a long drive will keep us apart.

“Thank you,” I say after I pull my lips away from hers.

“For what?”

I do not know how to express my gratitude. I am thanking her for her existence, for how her presence invigorates my soul, for how space and time warp to make room for her spirit.

“You make me a better man,” I say finally.

She blinks quickly, stifling her tears. Then she kisses me and sits back in her seat without another word.

The first hour of the drive is slow as the vehicle works through heavy snow, and I repeatedly check our GPS to ensure I am not about to drive us into a canyon or crater. Once the terrain improves, we make decent time and arrive at the ship just after dark.

It is too soon. I am not ready to be split apart.

A few people rush toward the rover as we park, the headlights illuminating the crowd as they run over. Pain grips my stomach as I realize I cannot take Azalea’s hand, or kiss her forehead, or pull her into an embrace as I so badly wish to do.

There will come a time.

I hope.

The moment is not now.

“Should we unload the truck?” asks Astrid. “Or wait until morning?”

She is with a man I recognize as Declan Manchester, a South African mining tycoon and an early financier in my efforts. He stands a few inches taller than me, with tawny brown skin and light hazel eyes, the type of man who attracts attention wherever he goes.

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