Ahead, the compact, aging spaceship loomed.
Across the small, sweltering room, the man who wasn’t Mr. Raven had abandoned and seemingly forgotten Ray Doyle. For the last few minutes since ceasing his beating of Ray, he’d been banging and prying and pounding at the canister, his attention fully engaged. He was nothing if not persistent, though why he hadn’t figured out yet that it wouldn’t open Doyle would never understand. He was only glad to be ignored and try to regain some strength.
The ride back wasn’t particularly long or bumpy, but he was acutely aware of how flinching and aching it was for Ray. Bodie sat in front and steered, Doyle sat on the back holding onto him carefully, more with one arm than the other, which he used very gingerly indeed.