Twenty-Five
The closet carved in basalt was only about six meters on a side. Snug enough that our helmet lights showed it all, but large enough that we could stretch out. My body heat had reinvigorated the garlic sweat of my suit’s owner, blending into a miasma that threatened to scorch my nose hair. The life support pack’s weight ground at my shoulders, squeezing me down even shorter.
And maybe I’d grown accustomed to the unending gravity waves, but now that we’d stopped running at double heavy my muscles felt like pudding.
I took a sip of water. It tasted stale and delicious. I swished it around my mouth, trying to rinse away the flat copper tastes of fear and adrenaline before swallowing. My body ached for more, but guzzling wouldn’t help.
“I didn’t run away with you to turn around
