I found Jack sitting at the table in the next room trying not to laugh.

“Everything go okay?” he asked.

“Fine. Can we talk about something else? Like, what are the chances that J.P. and Brian are going to find anything to eat?” I sat down across from Jack and wished for a hamburger. I don’t know how long we sat there dreaming of food when a rush of footsteps came towards us from a narrow hallway opposite the sleeping area I had not even noticed before. Brian and J.P. came rushing in, their hands filled with tubes, glasses and plates.  I hoped beyond hope that what filled the tubes, glasses and plates was not supposed to be food, because I’ve had science experiments look more appetizing. The only thing I recognized was the green zupa juice in the cups. The rest was a mishmash of congealing, jelly-like neon colors shaped like worms and miniature versions of our spaceship.

J.P. dropped his haul on the table. “How awesome is this, guys? We found a machine that just spits out food.”

“How do you know it’s food?” I asked skeptically.

“I already ate a whole bunch of it. It’s really good. Brian did, too.”

Brian smiled. “I’m not sure I’d say it’s really good, but it’s edible. If you close your eyes.”

So, we ate. No one shared J.P.’s enthusiasm, but at least our stomachs weren’t growling. When Mr. Fisher joined us a short time later, we even had names for the various dishes—crusty wormies, banana mud pie and blue slop.  We spent a long time just picking at the food and taking turns trying to coax something new out of the food machine. When we were finally full, after everyone had experienced the mysteries of the bathroom closet and every aspect of those mysteries had been explored in grotesque detail, we each wandered off to explore what remained of the ship, only to find that we had already seen all there was to see. Eventually we all ended up back around the table and the conversation turned depressing.

I couldn’t help but wonder what my parents were going through sitting in that cage. Were they allowed out to eat or visit the bathroom? I didn’t want to think of the alternative. Were they thinking about me and worrying about how I was taking care of myself or if the police were searching for them? Or maybe they had simply convinced themselves this was all a horrible dream and they would wake up soon. I shared my worries with my friends who clearly had their own set of concerns.

“My grandmother has got to be freaking out. I mean FBI, CIA, bat signal kind of freaking out,” said Brian. “One time, my cell phone battery died and she couldn’t reach me. The police picked me up from baseball practice. If we survive this whole trip and get back home alive, I am totally dead.”

J.P. shook his head back and forth. “I doubt my parents have noticed I’m gone or they’re hoping I’ve run away, probably. I did run away once, for a day, but came back when I got hungry. No big deal. Not for my parents. They know I’m independent and stuff.” He cleared his throat and slurped some leftover zupa juice, which sent him into a coughing fit.

Mr. Fisher smacked his back a few times and deftly changed the topic. “How about you Jack? Are police likely swarming your house?”

“I doubt it. At least not right away. If I lay low, may parents can forget about me for a couple days before they bump into each other and realize neither has spoken to me for a long time. Then I’ll get bombarded with phone calls, texts, invites to the game that night. You know, usual parent stuff. So, I figure it’ll be another day or so before all Hell breaks loose.

“What about a math teacher? Anyone gonna miss one of those?” Jack asked.

“I imagine there will be a few people, including the principal, who will wonder where I have gone off to, but the students can probably muddle by with a substitute and I only speak to my parents every other week or so, so I don’t think the police will be called in on my behalf. At least not right away. I suppose if we never return, well, it’s probably best not to think about that.” And we, therefore, all spent a long time thinking about exactly that. As I said, it was a depressing conversation.

The rest of the day passed without any major breakthroughs in food creation or the discovery of a hidden cache of board games. By the time we’d picked through another round of crusty works and goo for dinner, we all wandered into the room with the bunk beds and slowly drifted off to sleep muttering about the bricks used in making the mattresses.

    “I'm bored,” said J.P. after breakfast the next morning. We were sitting back in the control room, because despite our best efforts yesterday, there really wasn’t anything new to explore. Aside from the dining room where we ate whatever strange things the machine gave us, the room with really uncomfortable bunks for sleeping, and an empty storage chamber about the size of a minivan off of the control room,  the only place that was the least bit interesting was right where we sat. 

     Brian and Mr. Fisher were seated in front of the panel filled with buttons and levers arguing over whether to touch them. Jack had gone back to bed.

     “I'm bored,” J.P repeated reverting to his annoying self after a brief bout with normalcy yesterday. He was sitting where Mr. Fisher had told him to, in the seat farthest away from the control panel. 

     “Go lock yourself in the storage room,” I suggested. 

     “I'll lock you in there, if you don't shut up,” he said. 

     “J.P.,” Mr. Fisher called out without looking up from the control panel. “Please go push a few more buttons on the food dispenser below and get yourself a snack. Oh, and see if anything new pops up. I have grown very tired of crusty worms.” 

     “Hey, that'd be great. Thanks, J.P.,” added Brian. J.P. glared at me for a moment and then turned and left the room. I walked over to where Brian and Mr. Fisher were sitting in order to check on Brian's sanity. 

     “Thanks? That'd be great? What, are you and J.P. best buds now?” I asked. 

     “Of course not. It's just, well, maybe he's not as bad as he seems. He's got a pretty bad situation at home, you know,” Brian said. 

     “So do you, and you're not a jerk.”  

     “It’s different, Tom. My dad may not be around and my mom may be overworked, but I know she cares and I know my grandmother's got my back anytime I need her. You’ve seen the way J.P.’s parents act around him—we all have. I don't think he knows if they love him or if he’s just something for his parents to argue about and yell at.” Mr. Fisher had stopped studying the buttons and switches and was now watching Brian as he spoke. 

     “So, you think he's not responsible for his actions—like all those times he just decides to punch me?” I asked, disbelieving that one of my best friends was defending my tormentor. 

     “No, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying I never really thought about it before. Besides we're stuck together on this ship and, so . . .” 

     “. . . we may as well make the best of it. I think your comments are very insightful," offered Mr. Fisher, patting  Brian on the forearm. “Now what do you say we throw caution to the wind and push one of these buttons?” 

     “Definitely,” replied Brian. 

     “Just don't blow us up,” I said, and as soon as the words left my mouth, I fell straight through the floor. 

    I hit the ground hard in the dining room, my head just missing the edge of the table. My hand slipped on something wet and slimy and I immediately checked to see if it was blood, but it wasn't—unless I was bleeding green all of a sudden. I looked on the table and saw an overturned glass of zupa juice. 

    “Tom! Can you hear us?” Mr. Fisher shouted from the control room. Brian was shouting, too. I could hear them yelling, but when I looked up, I couldn’t see them. The ceiling was intact.

    “I’m down here in the dining room,” I called out, slowly rising to my feet. I was still checking my body parts to make sure nothing was broken when  Brian and Mr. Fisher came running into the room. 

    “What happened?” I asked. 

    “We just pushed one of the buttons,” Brian said, 

     “The red one, actually,” added Mr. Fisher. 

    “Yeah, the red one.” 

    “I don't care what color the button was. What happened? How did I fall through the floor when there’s no hole there, and why didn't I keep falling?”  I demanded. 

    “If I had to guess,” Mr. Fisher answered, “I would say that the button we pushed created the same phenomenon as the portal we entered through to get on the spaceship. When Brian took his finger off the button, the ship returned to normal. Just a guess, of course.” 

    “Well, guess some more then,” I said. “Why didn't you fall through the floor?”

    Brian jumped in. “I bet the chairs are protected somehow.” 

    “Good to know, now,” I said. 

    “Oh my God! What about Jack?” Brian asked. We all ran to the bunk room next door where Jack was resting. The room was dark. 

    “Jack! Are you okay?” I called out. We heard a rustling of sheets and blankets and then a dull thud. 

    “Ow,” Jack groaned. 

    The lights came on, and we could see Mr. Fisher standing by the doorway, his hand on the switch. and the bunks, which were attached to each wall in stacks of three. Brian rushed across the room until he found Jack, who was on the floor untangling himself from the sheets. 

    “Are you okay, man?” Brian asked. 

    “I was until you woke me up with your screaming,” Jack replied, while rubbing the back of his head. “Why are you all acting hysterical?” 

    “We were afraid you might be stuck in the floor,” Brian said. 

    “Stuck in the floor?” 

    “Or sliced in half,” suggested Mr. Fisher. 

    “Wait! What?” I said. “When did getting sliced in half become a possibility?” 

    “I didn't mean to frighten you, Tom, but it occurred to me that if Brian had taken his finger off of the button a second sooner, or later I suppose, half of you might have fallen through to the floor below and half not.” 

    “Yeah, okay, well I'm not going to think about that,” I said. 

    Jack stood up and threw the sheets back on the bed. “What's that banging noise?” he asked. 

    “Hey, your cast fell off,” I said. 

    “What? Wait, where's J.P.?” asked Brian. 

    Four “Oh no’s” and ten seconds later, we stood in a circle around a puddle of zupa juice, listening to the banging. 

    “What's below here?” Jack asked. “I mean, aside from J.P.”

    “I would think it's the engine room,” said Mr. Fisher. 

    “Well, how do we get down there? Has anyone seen a door or hatch?” I asked. Everyone shook their heads. 

    Mr. Fisher said, “I suggest we look again, and quickly. He may be hurt.” We scattered, but five minutes later we were back around the zupa juice. It just wasn't that big a ship. The banging continued. 

    “Seriously, we're going to need a blow torch or something,” Jack said. 

     “Sure, or why not just wish we had a giant can opener while you're at it,” suggested Brian, not so helpfully, I thought. 

     “Uh, guys?”    

“Just a minute, Jack. There must be a tool kit of some nature on board, somewhere,” said Mr. Fisher. “Even in this world, things must break on occasion.” 

     “Help.” 

     “Maybe you could push the button again and we could grab him before he falls through the floor down there,” I said staring at the green puddle.

     “No, that won't work because . . .” Brian started. 

     “Guys! Help!” Jack shouted. “My hand is on fire!” 

     We looked up from the floor, and it was.  Or really, his hand was fire. There was no discernible outline of fingers within the flame. We all took two steps back and stared. Without the honeycombed case, Jack's arm looked almost metallic. 

     “Do something,” Jack said. His face was white with fear. Mr. Fisher took his jacket off and tossed it over Jack's hand. The jacket burst into flame and disintegrated. Jack’s arm was still ablaze.

     “Does it hurt?” I asked noticing that Jack looked scared, but not in pain.

     “No. It doesn't feel normal, though,” Jack replied. 

     “Jack, I know this sounds crazy, but can you cut through the floor with that flame?” Mr. Fisher asked. 

     “Seriously?” 

     “You did ask for a blowtorch, didn't you?” Mr. Fisher knelt down and shouted at the floor. “J.P.! If you can hear me, it's Mr. Fisher! Stand back! We're going to try something! Go ahead, Jack.” 

     “This is nuts,” Jack said, as he crouched down and pressed his arm against the floor. The smell of burning metal filled the room and sparks seemed to shoot out from Jack's hand. He pulled his arm back. A small hole the size of a dime was punched through the floor. We leaned over to look through and an eyeball stared back at us. 

     “Don't stop,” J.P. yelled. “Get me out of here.”

     “Back up!” Jack ordered and pointed his arm back towards the floor. He traced a circle, sparks flying as he went around. A minute later the dime had become a manhole and we pulled J.P. up. 

    “Now what do I do?” Jack asked. “I want my arm back to normal.” And before he even finished the sentence, it was. 

    “Cool,” we all shouted.  Even Mr. Fisher, who then said, “Who knows what that arm is now capable of, Jack. Perhaps you should ask it to be something else, just to see what happens.”  

    “Like what?” Jack asked. 

    “I don't know. Something that might be useful to us.” 

Brian, J.P. and I all looked from Mr. Fisher to Jack and back again like we were following a tennis match.

    “Useful, huh.” Jack smiled and a moment later a shining broadsword hung from Jack's shoulder. He swished it through the air as though it weighed nothing. 

    “Amazing,” said Mr. Fisher. 

    “Awesome,” said Brian. 

    “Come on, a sword? How about a rocket launcher?” said J.P.  A moment later, he wished he hadn't, as a terrifying-looking weapon was pointed at his head. 

     “That's enough, Jack,” Mr. Fisher cautioned. 

     “Sure, okay.” And there it was, a regular old arm again. 

    Brian said, almost under his breath, “I didn’t think this situation could get any weirder.” We all nodded in agreement. After a moment, J.P. walked over to Jack and quietly started trying to get him to morph his arm into different weapons. Mr. Fisher and Brian headed back up to the control room to argue about whether to push any more buttons. I stood there alone, 26.2 light years from home.