Maybe, if Phillip had listened to his parents and became a soldier, instead of an astronaut, he wouldn’t have gotten himself stuck in this mess.

Now, laying on the moon, Phillips hands wrapped around your waist as he breathes shakily, trying to gain the little oxygen left, he tries not to sob.

“We did good,” he starts, trying to put off the inevitable with words.

“Hell, we’re dyin’ on the fuckin’ moon.” He chuckled, shaking his head.