Six people are sealed inside a space station, spinning around the Earth at seventeen thousand miles an hour. Over the course of a single day they will witness sixteen sunrises and sixteen sunsets, watching whole continents, oceans, and weather systems slide beneath them in silence. There is no plot in the ordinary sense — only the work of the mission, the small routines of confinement, and the planet turning below.
Two Russian cosmonauts, Roman and Anton, share the craft with Shaun from America, Pietro from Italy, Nell from Britain, and Chie from Japan, who is quietly carrying the recent death of her mother. As they run experiments, exercise, eat their rehydrated meals, and take their turns at the window, their thoughts drift across the lives they left behind, the fragile beauty of the world they are circling, and a typhoon gathering far below over the Pacific.
Samantha Harvey's Booker Prize-winning novel is a short, luminous meditation rather than a thriller — a hymn to the Earth seen from just far enough away to love it completely. In spare, radiant prose it holds ordinary human longing against the vastness of space, and finds in one unremarkable orbit something close to the sacred.