As the Sun nears its activity maximum, violent flares and proton storms remind the crew how exposed they are, even as Earth’s magnetosphere and the station’s shielding keep their radiation dose low. In early evening they do routine cleaning and maintenance: Shaun gathers rubbish, Roman and Pietro scrub toilets, Anton services air purification, Chie disinfects surfaces, and Nell vacuums vents, finding stray tools and clippings.

As they cross Africa into night, Chie lingers at the window thinking of Japan and her mother’s imminent cremation. In the Russian module Anton privately worries over a painless cherry-sized lump on his neck and hides it, fearing a medical evacuation would endanger others’ missions. The lump also crystallizes a long-realized truth for Anton: his marriage is loveless, and he resolves to propose an amicable separation when he returns home.

Pietro checks updates on the typhoon, now classified a super-typhoon, and feels unnerved that they can no longer see it from orbit. He photographs the sea and moon and worries about children he met in the Philippines on his honeymoon and whether they are safe. After experiments, the six complete strict self-monitoring—mood, appetite, vitals, and blood and urine sampling—while Shaun reflects that they are “lab rats” enabling a coming era of lunar bases and Mars-bound missions, even as their aging station shows signs of wear, including a troubling crack on the outer shell.

They gather for dinner in the Russian module, sharing Russian provisions and Nell’s last chocolate-coated honeycomb from a resupply package. They trade memories of childhood sweets, and the station briefly fires thrusters to avoid space debris. In the middle of the meal Chie announces her mother’s funeral will be tomorrow and recalls a mountain climb in Shikoku where her mother, strong and joyful, called out to her from the summit; the intimacy of the moment breaks Anton into tears, and he and Chie carefully catch the floating droplets.

Roman makes a shortwave contact with Therese near Vancouver, who asks whether he ever feels “crestfallen” and questions the point of things; Roman answers that the sleeping bag’s gentle billow in microgravity makes space feel alive and not anticlimactic. As the signal dies, Therese reveals her husband has died and the radio was his. Later Shaun rereads an old postcard from his wife, then struggles to answer an editorial question about the future of humanity; Pietro quips it is being written “with the gilded pens of billionaires.” When Pietro studies the Las Meninas postcard, he says the subject is the dozing dog, and Shaun’s perspective shifts: amid human vanities and mirror-games, the animal’s closed eyes and poise look like the only kind of freedom.