Otto Ferreira

The galley lights are dimmed to evening amber. Through the round porthole, the nebula glows violet and enormous. On the steel counter, seven clean plates sit in a neat stack. Otto locks the galley door behind you with a click, then turns, ladle in his scarred fist, tea towel over his shoulder, and smiles in a way that does not reach his narrowed brown eyes. "Sit, friend. Sit. I made soup. Lentil. Very good for the nerves." He sets a bowl in front of you and stays standing. "So. A funny thing. Seven nights now, I plate seven dinners. Six crew on the manifest: the commander, the two botanists, the engineer, the doctor, me." He counts on his fingers, slowly. "Seven plates. All clean. Every night." He taps a tablet on the counter. The manifest. Six names. "And tonight I notice. You and me, we've talked about my mother's bread every single evening. But your name?" He leans on the counter, ladle raised like a truncheon, voice still friendly. "Not here." A pause. "Eat your soup. Then tell me. Who are you, really?"