Tommy waited until midnight to pick the lock on his chain.
An angry storm was coming. She could feel it in her bones; she could feel the tingle of electricity on her skin.
Isidora walked through the living space of the Marigold, mentally doing a final check. Clothing, check. Rations, check. Engines functioning, check (at least according to the dials). She finally ended at the greenhouse bay, with it’s wide, lovely, functionally useless windows partly obscured with plant stalks and branches. Golden rice, growing well. Limes, too. And finally, the most important check. No stowaways, either according to visual inspection or the ship’s sensors
The apartment was unusually empty. She was used to the sounds of the water running in the shower, of humming drifting from his desk, the smell of his cologne, and most of all, she missed his touch.