I scroll my flight logs with pruned fingers, swamp water licking my wrists. The numbers line up, then stop cold. The vessel launched without its core. Someone pulled it before I left Mars. I huff a laugh, small and bitter. So repair is not step one. Step one is finding a thief on a planet I don’t know. I wade to my vine-wrapped hut and kill the lantern. Therefore, I set traps and mark the mud. If a thief walks, I will see prints. The plan shifts in my head. Fix later. Hunt first. I sleep lighter, not hopeful, but aimed. Something has changed: I’m no longer repairing. I’m tracking.