Clint shifted. His eyes fluttered open. It was bright. He strained. His body was reluctant to move. Had he ever been able to move? Slowly he rolled onto his side and squinted at the window across from the bed.
The Sun shown in over him. But not the Sun. This wasn’t his star. What did the Clastad call it?
He drew a deep breath, wincing with the effort. Maybe all of his ribs were broken. Or maybe just one. He couldn’t tell. Everything ached.
A groan rose through is throat. He shuddered from the chill. He wasn’t cold. He should be cold. Why wasn’t he cold?
The Sun – or whatever it was – was nice to see. He wondered if this would be the last time he would ever see it.