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In another part of the ship, Victoria was visiting Debi Aiello’s quarters. She had been summoned that night by a panting technician, begging her, ‘you are the only one who would understand,’ and so forth. She arrived to a darkened cabin, and stark light stabbing down on white bedsheets. Debi Aiello was laid bare in her shorts and tank top, rolling around. The sight of the toughest tomboy she knew, so fragile, was disorienting. “Uhh!” Debi heaved at sight of the captain’s wife. Then: “Thank God you’re here!” “What’s the matter?” asked Victoria, rushing to her. “They’re here!” “Who’s here?” “Demons of the universe! Trashers of all that is good and fair. I never made the connection before. Never understood. Burt!” Victoria sat on the bedside table, placed her hands on Debi’s shoulders. Her spiked hair had come apart in the sweats, and looked more like a deck brush on the pillow by now. “Come on Debi, make some sense.”
A woman lies on a bed in a dimly lit, wooden room, wearing a simple white shirt. She appears contemplative, with a white blanket draped over her, evoking a sense of solitude and introspection.
