10 Minutes

“Warning: System Failure. Estimated oxygen remaining: ten minutes.”

What? “No, no, no!” I jump out of the cockpit and run from window to window. There’s nothing, literally nothing. They have to be here. I need them to be here! It was just supposed to be a quick hop from one ship to the other, so where is my goddamn ride?

I throw every door and drawer open, but wherever the manual is, I can’t find it. Why have a ship that goes through outer space but doesn’t have a blasted manual? What’s the point? I have six minutes left. They can still come. They have to. They would not leave me here. They have to know I’m coming.

I don’t know what to do with a ship that is counting down the number of breaths I have left. I’m not a mechanic. I should have learned some basic mechanics before coming to space. Why isn’t that a thing? Everyone should know how to fix stuff like this. Oh god. Only two minutes left, almost.

If my ride is coming to save me, they better make it fast. What if they don’t make it? They have to. They won’t rescue a corpse. What kind of cosmic god has that kind of nasty irony?

I’m not dying, okay? I have a wife and two kids and I do not have less than a minute and a half to live. What if… No. They should be in sight by now, if I’m going to make it. I’m not. Thirty seconds is not enough time to think. I can’t. What do I do with fifteen seconds?

I want to live, okay? I want to li—


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