Sunrise comes every twenty-eight minutes. The tin can I'm in spins around and the sun rises in the viewing window, pretty as a postcard. About the same size, really. Two dawns an hour.
At that rate, I've got about two ersatz weeks before the air gets too thick to breathe. I couldn't figure out how to shut off all the alarms, so I just cut the wires. Except I cut too many, and now my only light is my distant sun, drifting now up beyond my line of sight. I watch it go and count, waiting for one more sunrise.
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