Hari snores.

I would be, could be, content for the rest of my life living in the ass-end of a fleeing starship and shovelling cow shit into the matter recyclers while chomping down rubbery nutrient bars and slugging water that tastes a bit too much like iron, really I would. But sleeping, or trying to sleep, an arms-length away from a two-hundred and thirty pound grunt who snores might be the thing that tips me over the edge, and maybe even out an airlock.

Hari snores and he knows he snores. And he doesn’t care. In fact, he seems to revel in the notion that he’s driving the rest of crazy and there ain’t nothing anyone can do about it. He’s got a screw loose, probably from a past with a few too many nights with his nose in a moff griller, rotting brain cells and coiling up like a kinetic spring whatever piece that remains would have been responsible for inhibition.

Hari snores with a rumble to rival the engine coolers and I sleep close enough to reach down and …

Nothing. There’s nothing I can do about it.