Fifteen. He fumbles toward an outstretched hand. Fourteen. He misses. Thirteen. Panic. Twelve. The vessel spins away, replaced by a thousand-million stars and utter, utter blackness. Eleven. He exhales. Ten. Oxygen spills like blood from an open wound. Nine. Decompression. Eight. There is no time to think. Seven. Just sensation. So cold. Six. His saliva … More Fifteen Seconds in the Vacuum of Space