It started with the small things. She moved a picture a couple centimeters to the right. The towels were relocated to the larger closet. The bed was next. She forced it across the carpet. With forearms burning, she stood and surveyed the layout. A moment later, she rounded the bed and pushed it back.

A ring at the door interrupted her work. She opened it to find Chakotay, San Francisco looming over his shoulder in the distance.

“How's it going?”

“I hate it,” she announced.

A smile transformed his face. “Why? It doesn't have an engine?”

“Very funny, Old Man.”