There’s twenty minutes’ worth of air left in the shuttle. Forty if there weren’t two of you needing to breathe it.
Brad takes the capsule you offer him and smiles. “At least we’ll die together.”
“I love you,” you say, placing your own capsule onto your tongue. “It’ll be easier this way.”
The drug is quick-acting. He holds your hand as he dies.
Spitting your capsule onto the ground, you grind it beneath your feet and slide into the captain’s chair. The spaceport is only thirty minutes away. You’ll be there in plenty of time. Twenty minutes, if you rush.