Space didn't have air, and Noah had learned the hard way exactly how long he could go without it.
Twelve hours. That was the ceiling. Somewhere past hour eleven his lungs started sending him increasingly insistent messages about the number of terrible decisions that had led him to this point, and somewhere past hour twelve those messages stopped being polite. He'd found that out the slow way, floating in open void with nothing but stars in every direction, One's trail gone cold three systems back and his own good sense arriving a little too late to stop him from testing it.
