18 Yo: Teen

Leo’s hands stopped shaking. He adjusted the port thruster mix—0.3% lean. Then he keyed the ignition.

The intercom crackled. Not from mission control—from a handheld radio duct-taped to the dashboard. A voice came through, rough with sleep and worry. teen 18 yo

His dad, a launch coordinator who’d died two days before Leo’s fourteenth birthday, had left him two things: the shuttle and a single notebook. The first page read: “By 18, you’ll know if you’re ready.” Leo’s hands stopped shaking

“You absolute idiot,” she said, helping him climb out on shaky legs. ” she said

“Leo. It’s Mom.”

He was weightless.

And that was fine.