Ron was trying harder to focus now than he ever had in fifty long years of life. He figured that if he kept his breathing as even as possible, he could make good time and conserve his air. It worked on Earth, so he thought it would just take some adjustment to account for how much lighter he was on Europa. Turns out running with a metal pipe between your ribs is like having a stitch in your side--if that stitch was about eight inches long and poking out through your chest.

  Needless to say, he was in pain. Ron felt like he was a little girl’s toy doll after it’d been stolen by her sadistic older brother and stabbed with a screwdriver. Then thrown against the sidewalk and stomped on a few times for good measure. Every step he took jostled the pipe, shooting bolts of fire piercing through his chest, and he ached all over from bruises spanning his entire body.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Even if all that hadn’t been enough for Ron to keep losing focus, his thoughts kept being pulled back to the fire that had raged across the habitat. It was covered in flame--I could barely even see the cafeteria or lab through the blaze.

  Ron took a slow breath as he ran across the ice. He focused on the air entering his mouth, traveling down to his lungs, then joining the blood to fuel his body. He felt the pain in his side as his lungs expanded and a foot hit the ground, then he carefully exhaled, gradually releasing the breath through his nose. Breathe, Ron, he thought to himself, Just breathe.

  [8] hours and [44] minutes

  [91.7] kilometers