A thin line of pale saliva ran down his chin.

His breathing was shallow, his chest barely rising.

Beside him, First Officer Danny Cole groaned.

His fingers twitched against his thigh.

“Danny?” I knelt beside him, checking his pulse.

It was thudding rapidly, weak and erratic.

“Water,” Danny whispered, his eyes still closed. “Don’t… don’t let him.”

“Don’t let who, Danny?” I asked, leaning closer to his mouth.

“The cargo,” Danny mumbled. “The manifest… it wasn’t… it wasn’t sealant.”

My breath caught in my throat.

I looked up at Thorne.

The doctor was standing near the door, his eyes fixed on Danny.

His hand was tucked inside his jacket pocket.

“What manifest, Danny?” I asked.

But the co-pilot’s head rolled to the side, and he went limp again.

“He is delirious,” Thorne said quickly. “Lack of oxygen to the brain.”

“He didn’t say anything about oxygen,” I said.

I stood up, my back against the instrument panel.

“You were the one who suggested we check the forward cargo bay earlier, Dr. Thorne,” I said.

“Because that is where the air intake is located,” he said.