I turn the page of the diary. The beginnings of the next entry are there, but otherwise it all is obliterated by blood. The cameras show a riot breaking out following a murder by Warehouse B. In the chaos, someone blew a hole in the hatch. The air ran out.
I tread lightly over these bodies, all perfectly preserved in the lunar vacuum, all an image of life, all dead. Dead, just like everyone on the Earth. Dead, just like everyone on Mars after a piece of North America hit it.
There were just a few of us left, huddling for warmth beneath the soil of Aristarchus, when Donald found us. He was alone and close to death; we nursed him back to health. When he was able to talk again, he told us that since we gave him his life back, he would give us ours.
It took awhile to build, but according to Donald this mountain-sized cylinder will take us, or, rather, our descendants to Alpha Centauri. I put the diary in my pocket and step aboard.
It is time to say good-bye to the old order of things. A new sunrise awaits us.