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Aimee Ogden is a former science teacher and software tester; now she writes stories about sad astronauts and angry princesses. Her work has also appeared in magazines such as Clarkesworld, Analog and Beneath Ceaseless Skies.
Half past twelve on the second night in line. Endy wakes up on the edge of the cot with Rees curled against her. Sweat pastes her baby’s curls to his forehead; he’s got the sleeping bag bunched up around his head. She kisses his soft, sweat-slick cheek. He’s old enough now that he’s lost that milky-sweet baby breath; thumbsucking sourness hits her in the face instead. Her back and hips complain as she unwinds backwards off the cot — carefully, to keep it from tipping. The tent zipper catches twice before she can close it.