RM Ambrose

“If they find us before we hide the ship,” said an older man, “it won’t matter if we hide the pilot.” He wasn’t angry . . . resigned. The Auto Doc beeped beside her. The two men were talking in hushed tones—they didn’t know she was awake. Both had long, dark hair. She guessed Latino. The younger was in his 20s, the older in his 50s and starting to show a little gray. Father and son? They wore loose, beige button-up shirts—homespun linen—with khaki pants, stained with dirt and plant matter.