Note: follows from #78, commodity.

Danny slumps down on the bed, falling back onto his rocketship-patterned comforter. It's never been completely dark here – the streetlights, the headlights, the city-lights, they all accrete so they block out the real stars.

There's an ectoplasm stain right there, near his hands. It glows, way darker than the paper constellations he'd glued up on the ceiling, like it's heavier somehow.

He keeps his eyes open as long as he can, focusing on absolutely anything in the world (here, in this place where he can't afford to be weak) that isn't his aching chest.

It's getting harder to breathe.