Donovan sat in a wooden chair that was neither especially comfortable nor especially unpleasant. His window was open. Skymoore’s cool summer air wafted in. He could see the stars. A mile off the ground, he was closer to them than he’d ever been before. That should have made him feel more at home. The stars always felt like home.
Instead, his ring finger felt heavy. Like every second, he was fighting its efforts to pull him to the floor. Through the floor. Through Skymoore. Through the clouds. To his death. To his home.
But he felt more comfortable now than he had since he stepped onto the elevator that took him off the surface of Solkin. Since he stood on solid ground for the last time. So he kept fighting to remain upright, and stared out the window until sleep and exhaustion took him at last.