“Miraj, what did he say?” Uday asks; he is the eldest man to have come from the Pakistan suburbadome. His face full of deep lines and gray hairs. Parts of his beard is stained yellow from the tobacco he smokes. He doesn’t roll his [i]ghutra[/i] up like the younger men. The white linen turns red with every flash of the emergency lights. 
“Grab your pack, brother,” Miraj commands in Urdu, “We must leave.”

Hamir nods and grips the stained straps. They all opted to bring their wooden-backed bags that had to be cleaned like all of their other items before permitted onto the ship as to limit cross contamination between biospheres. The canvas is recycled rice bags, the Arabic and Hindi writing only partly visible from years of use. But if these packs have withstood thousands of kilometers of hiking, being trampled by goats, and thrown down at the hearth of a home once finally returning to families after months of herding—these patched packs would continue to serve them well on Spera. [i]And it would be all we have,[/i] Miraj thinks as he ushers his friends along, following arrows and signs. Uday hesitates outside of the emergency drop-ship and shouts, “Our musahallah!” His pointed gray eyes straining between the hallway leading deeper into the ship and the inside of the emergency vehicle. Hamir pushes him in, grumbling about priorities. They stumble around the few people in the drop ship, but collect themselves. A buzz of anxiety keeps everyone fidgeting in the plastic seats.

Miraj clutches his bag to his chest, feeling the outline of his oud. He traces his fingers along the strings, imagining the cool, ridges as he plays. He tries not think of the prayer rugs in the cargo hold. But a dark creeping thought freezes in his mind: how will they even know which direction to face in this new world? How will they, as Muslims, be able to perform their prayers without knowing where Mecca is in relation to Spera? Curling his toes, Miraj focuses on how his feet are still slimy from stepping in Hamir’s puke. The physical discomfort distracts him from the pain in his heart of not being able to properly worship God. As the last stragglers slip into the drop-ship, the shuttles shutters as the door closes and a woman’s voice comes over the intercom. Her words mix in his mind until he is sure she is reciting one of Rumi’s poems. And in the dark as the drop ship disconnects from the Bright Hope and slips into the gravitational pull of Spera, he pretends the voice [i]is[/i] reciting Rumi and that it’s his wife, whispering her favorite verses into the soft ear of their newborn daughter. The drop ship rocks as it enters the atmosphere. Gasps and cries crawl out of people’s throats. 

“You are nothing but him,” Miraj quotes, fingers stiff and white as he clutches his bag. 

Hamir squeezes his forearm and says in Arabic, “There is no God but God.”

“And Muhammad is—” 

A roar of air and heat and screams. And for that moment, Miraj wishes he tried to go get his musahallah so that he wouldn’t have to be in this hell.