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    Jesus, my back.

    I pause, gasping for breath — I'm genuinely sweating. And embarrassed. I wonder if Rocky can hear me losing to a slab of wood.

    God, I hope he can't. Please God.

    It's stuck behind a few empty crates and some miscellaneous spare lab supplies. A few beakers. A blender, for some reason. An ironing board. Why? Because go to hell, Ryland Grace, that's why. You can't have enough fuel to come back but you can have an ironing board with no iron. Here's two kilos of cement-flavoured coma slurry. Kill yourself.

    "I'm being dramatic," I tell myself aloud.

    I'm really not. Dying in space is a very dramatic situation.

    The ways that Rocky and Grace miss everything all the time, yet watch over each other, always.

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    Language:
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    22 Apr 2026