His breath caught.
“I know,” he said, already working the crash couch’s harness. “Log it under ‘stupid decisions, age fifty.’” rafian at the edge 50
At fifty years old, Rafian was an antique. Not by the standards of Earth, perhaps, but out here, on the ragged edge of human-extended space, survival was measured in six-month increments. He had outlasted three partners, two settlements, and one very persistent bounty hunter who now decorated a cryo-vent near the Kraken Mare. His breath caught