When Robinson was a child, she built rockets in her backyard. The beauty wasn’t in the exploration—getting to space took no time at all—but in the building. Cardboard fuselage, tin can engines, her dad’s torn T-shirt for a flag. Materials were all around her.
Dunworth lived next door.
“Where are you going today?” he wondered.
“Dunno,” said Robinson, strapping on some ski goggles. “Space is vast.”
Robinson pressed a soda cap button, making rocket sounds. She was about to take off, but thought for a moment.
“You know, this is the anniversary of my kajillionth launch, and you’ve never once come with me.”
“I have some concerns.”
“Concerns kill the fun.”
“But what if the oxygen goes out? What if you get stranded? What happens if you can’t make it back home?”
“That’s more like it!” Robinson said, pulling her best friend into the rocketship.
“More like what?”
Handing Dunworth some swim goggles, Robinson made her final countdown.
“You’re asking questions. And having questions is always better than having concerns.”