Lee closes and puts down her journal and pen and reaches up to adjust her glasses; they keep going slightly askew because of the pressure on one side of her head, where it's pressed against Michael's leg. She needs them to see the damn television, but she broke them again a few weeks ago and they're being held together by white tape over the bridge.
“They do that, you know.” They do, actually, wear diapers. Oh, they call them containment systems, but they're special shorts you wear to crap yourself in. Lee can't remember where she read that particular detail, but it fascinated her. People who are just born and dying and going to the moon have that in common. She supposes if you're on a rocket to the moon, you're allowed to crap your pants.
The shuttle creeps closer to the moon, a big timer taking up most of the screen. They're so close to it now. You could drive that distance.