Peter woke up how he always did: with dust in his eyes. His base – top of the line, they'd said – leaked constantly. He didn't blame the specific company that built it; it was Earth in general that was cheap.

He groped for the washcloth on his nightstand, wiped his face slowly, then got up to survey the damage. Everything was coated in a fine layer of red dust, except for the spot on his bed where he'd slept. He hadn't bothered to get under the covers last night, which was good because that meant they were still clean underneath.

The leak was obvious; a big crack on the wall with red soil spilling in. There was no sealant left, so he grabbed his last roll of duct tape – grey and leathery, like dinosaur skin – and did his best to fix it up. After seven years of Martian air, the tape was tacky and hard to tear, and the patch ended up a mangled mess. But it was functional, and that meant he would probably live to see another day.

Right away, he made coffee. This was always the best part of his day. Somehow he had more coffee beans left than fresh water, soap, and now, duct tape. In their big plastic barrel, the beans glinted like gemstones. Onyx, maybe. Peter couldn't really remember the right name. All he knew was his birthstone was sapphire, and he only knew that because of his mom and her big blue earrings – the ones she wore every year on his birthday, the ones his dad had given her the day she came home from the hospital holding Peter. They loved telling that story. Peter never saw why; it wasn't much of a story considering nothing bad happened in it.

But maybe now he was starting to get it. He sipped his coffee and looked out the window at the sun coming up. There was no color in Martian sunrises, just gray dirt and black sky becoming red dirt and red sky. Sometimes, on good mornings, the dust would clear and the sky would glow briefly, brilliantly blue. Then Peter could pretend he was still on Earth, standing in a vast desert. Nothing in sight, but maybe there was a town just over the hill, or a tourist shop behind him. Or a camel; he would definitely take a camel, even if he'd read somewhere that they spit in the eyes of people they didn't like.

Anyway, today was one of those good days, and Peter was grateful for the smudge of blue in the sky. Maybe he'd get out for a while, drive his rover a hundred miles towards the sun until his base shrank to a tiny black dot, like a pupil. And then maybe a little more, until it disappeared for good. But he'd only gone that far once before, and it took him three days to find the base again. Those nights out under the Martian sky hadn't been too bad, just him lying there looking up at the stars. With no light pollution, they were strong. And apparently the constellations were the same as on Earth, but Peter had never been too good at astronomy, even after his training. The only one he could ever reliably identify was Orion's belt. Still, it was nice to see it up there, three tiny dots in a line. Like the eyes on those aliens from Toy Story, the ones that worshiped the claw of the machine they were stuck in.

Yeah, maybe he would drive out later. Bring a book and his pillow. But first he had to take out the compost.

There wasn't much in it ‐ he'd mostly been drinking coffee these days and nothing else. He didn't like to look at his dwindling food stash. They'd promised to send more, said they valued his research, but that must've been a year ago, now. He hadn't heard anything since. Earth was good at breaking promises.

Still, he gave them the benefit of the doubt. There was some big emergency happening right before they lost connection last year, something warlike, nuclear, apocalyptic. He thought they were exaggerating, but now he wasn't so sure. In his telescope, Earth looked darker every day. He didn't like to think about that though. He suited up and headed out.

There was nothing out here. Nothing. No deer, no wolves, no plants, no bugs. Peter never thought he'd miss bugs. He'd always found them repulsive back on Earth. The big pill bugs on the asphalt in summer, their dull gray carapaces roasting in the sun. Spiders – it didn't matter what kind, they were all hideous. Those squirming maggots that appeared from thin air, like that time when he forgot to take out the compost before he left for his three-day vacation to San Diego. Those'd been particularly bad — he'd had to run around the house all day, vacuuming them up. Luckily they were slow, and as useless as humans when it came to crawling up walls. Still, he couldn't believe the places they'd managed to squeeze themselves into. It was amazing in a horrifying way; lifting a rug became a thrilling experience. Like when he was a kid and he'd pick up a big rock, anticipating beneath it a huge black spider or a long green centipede or some sort of evil combination of the two, writhing and lurking in its own filth. Sometimes there was something awful, and he got to scream and fling himself away – but mostly there was just cool, dry earth, and he'd put the rock back feeling equal parts relieved and disappointed.

Peter stared at the sky a little longer, until it hurt his eyes. He tossed his compost onto the dusty surface of Mars, and turned to go back inside. Behind him, the coffee grounds streaked, glistening like jewels, like onyx – all laid out neatly under the big sapphire sky.