"The stars . . ." he croaks. "I've never seen them."
The fever has him bad and he doesn't have long. Despite being born in this hellhole penitentiary moon, few care and none can help the boy now. A guard owes me, though, and I call in the favour – surface access, briefly. Even my old ass can drag a sick child up there.
I look out at the glorious spectacle. I'd almost forgotten it and the reminder hurts. I turn to the boy, but the eyes are just glass orbs in a mannequin.
I wonder – did he see the stars before he died?
