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For the past few weeks, I have been working two jobs. The first of which is down-to-earth: a prototypical nine-to-five office job and everything that entails. For eight hours a day I am surrounded by white walls, black terminals and friendly faces. I enjoy my work and the company of my coworkers. It gives me a lot. I view this job as a position in every sense: it is an office in a building; it is work on a project alongside a team; it is a carved out little spot that I can call my own and that is defined by its connection to over people. It also handsomely pays the bills. I am grateful for all of this.

As I head home, escaping from evening's fingers extending overhead, I prepare to step into my second more solitary job as an astronaut. I make some small talk, first with my roommate and then my partner, before falsely bidding them goodnight. I feel bad about acting disingenuous, but I do have a job to do. I begin my ritual to boldly go where none have gone before. Softly, I close my bedroom door and turn off the lights; it is crucial that the airlock forms a seal for my safety. I wrap a blanket around my chair as tightly as possible, for if my space suit has even the smalles opening I will freeze to death. I pick up my headphones and place them on my head, making sure that the helmet sits comfortably but securely. My dashboard now says that all lights are green. I pick up the controller of my Steam-powered spacecraft and fly off into the inky blackness of a doomed solar system.

Here in the Up-And-Out, I am almost completely alone. My only company is the seven celestial bodies of this star, slowly circling me in silence. As I look at these planets from my perch in Timber Hearth's orbit, I notice that they look unfamiliar. Unwelcoming. Avoidant. After a few minutes they finally greet me with a message. There is no place for me here, they say. They tell me this by ducking behind an ever-expanding sun. They are taunting me: if I am lonely now, then imagine just how lonely I will be in twenty two minutes. After emerging from the other side of the star they spin on, not sparing a second glance. I can't be upset at this treatment; here in the Up-And-Out, a cold shoulder makes for a warm reception. I should be grateful for any acknowledgement at all.

This doesn't sit right with me, though. It's not at all like my first job. So, in search of company, I touch down on a planet's surface. Of course, only ruins and wreckage are there to greet me. I see collapsed walls decorated with a spiral script. As my translator follows their curves, words like brushstrokes paint a picture of the Nomai, a civilization long gone. I follow the twists and turns of the Nomai writing through abandoned cities, listening to these mute orators tell their tales, their hopes, dreams, fears. These places used to be vibrant, I begin to understand. I am not going where no man has gone before. I am walking down the streets of these folk, in their houses and through their closets. I am bearing witness to relationships blossom ages after their winter had come. I find so many of these remnants as I walk and yet none of these people. Why is that? It's a mystery. Maybe it's a tragedy.

It is also a reminder, that as I trudge along and around the planets of this system, I am almost completely alone.

Almost.

In my hands, I hold a small radio receiver. Feeling somewhat defeated, I half-heartedly raise this receiver away from the planet's surface and into the Up-And-Out. There may be something out there trying to reach me, but I doubt it. All that I've found so far are lonely images of lives somehow swallowed by these stars.

As soon as I lift this device, sounds begin to swim from the receiver and into my ears. I almost drop it in disbelief. I begin waving this small receiver around in a hurry. I feel a sudden sense of urgency, finally finding something that is amongst all that was. I flail around, desperately trying to find the source of that signal. To my surprise, it appears to lock in on another planet passing me by. I give this planet a luxury it did not afford me, a second glance. By paying it this small kindess it shows me something I had missed before: a small flickering little light in a forest clearing. I smell marshmallows. With one mystery solved, I finally turn my attention to the sounds that have been demanding my attention. It is multiple waves layering on top of one another. It is a banjo, a flute, a whistle, a harmonica and drums. It is a reminder that I am not alone.

It is a reminder that even in the darkest corners of a solar-system-soon-supernova, you can always find a seat, and share a song, around the campfire.