For those who face racism, bigotry, and discrimination each day. For those who struggle against socio-economic oppression, or conformity at the risk of death. I cannot forget your stories.

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June 22, 2518 (present)

Wash balanced his supper plate in one hand as he climbed down into his bunk. Zoë had been sick for awhile and hadn’t been eating well. Shepherd Book had helped him prepare something that would be gentler on her stomach, and he hoped she could keep it down. When Wash’s boots hit the deck, they made a soft thump, but Zoë didn’t move. Her writhing left foot told Wash that his wife was still awake, albeit uncomfortable. She lay on her side, curled in a nest of pillows and blankets. Her right arm disappeared into the nest while her left arm lay on top of the covers, her hand trembling ever so slightly.

“Hey, sweetie,” Wash whispered, setting down the food plate and stroking her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips dry. When Wash’s hand passed over her abdomen, he could feel her stomach rumbling, though he could tell by the look of her that she wouldn’t eat. Zoë managed a weak smile, though her breath was short. Despite the sweat glistening on her face, her skin was cold as ice.

“No better?” he asked.

“Must’ve picked up a bug on Angel,” she breathed, her voice smooth and controlled.

“I suppose that’s a hazard of naked beaches,” Wash remarked with a smile.

“At least I had fun getting it,” she smiled, still not moving aside from her fingers kneading the sheets. “How’s that sunburn?”

Wash shrugged and the fabric of his shirt brushed roughly across his dry skin. “I had fun getting it… Maybe I should call Simon.”

“No,” Zoë protested softly. “I’m shiny. Just let me rest a little.”

Wash adjusted the pile of linens, trying to clear enough space for him to sit on the bed next to her, but Zoë swatted him away feebly, managing to only move her arm from below the elbow.

“You are disrupting my zen.”

“I’m sure we can find it again. Tell you what. You sit up right now and