Reno liked to think of his life in two distinct eras, the same way humans did all those years ago, except instead of Christ, his life existed before and after Thomas Vander. In the years before, life was simple and sometimes happy. His parents loved him in their own ways. They were quiet people of little regard on the moon they called home. 

Reno watched the planet they circled, which they called Anthurium, as it rose over the horizon, as it did every morning, just as he. Its surface was a vibrant red that captivated Reno. It was a sticky kind of sweetness that he had to pull himself off of limb by limb. There was no red so vibrant as Anthurium on his moon. No, his moon was shades of gray and muted browns that mixed together as the wind lifted the dusty regolith through the hills smoothed by years of sediment floating down. 

Wind whipped past him as his stepped out of the hub, howling against the helmet. He was suited up for the walk to the greenhouse that he did every morning before his mother woke up, every inch of skin covered with thick, vision-warping acrylic covering his face, protection from the thin air that failed to dampen the light from their star. He was good about UV radiation protection; he lived and breathed it. After all, Reno was desperate to live. 

The plants were all doing well. Rows upon rows of potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, and other vegetables and fruits. His mother relied on him for food as it was his job to tend the greenhouse that fed them both. They’d been able to downsize the amount they grew after his father had died which had been a small ray of hope in the torrential rain that followed. Reno had only just been able to overcome the hopelessness and anguish he had felt. It was hard to lose someone so permanently, particularly when you only really knew two people.  

Of course, there were other people on their moon, but they were separated by miles of greenhouses and mining fields. He saw them rarely, and he treated them with distrust has his parents had taught him. The universe was fraught with bad actors who sought only their own personal benefit, not considering yours. His parents could be called paranoid, but Reno would not say such. He thought they were smart, safe, practical people. 

Gray, dusty regolith coated his boots that were sealed to the pants of his suit. His oxygen tank laid heavy on his back, tubes clicking as he walked. He was tired from tending the hundreds of plants, sweat rolled down his back in the gap between his skin and his dirty underlayer he had slept in the night before.