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“HIS DOUGHNUT IS OUT OF JAM!” crackles the PA as Melanie and her crew scramble down the vessel wall to the pit. Zymer’s erythrocycle is a deep violet, spinning haplessly as he yanks at the controls. The crew slaps on an oxygen hose; redness floods the hull. Zymer, relieved, pukes off the other side.

“Chief,” he pants to Melanie as she checks his heme, “I been wondering.”

“Too much time on the track, Z. You zoning out on me?”

“We’re smaller than cells,” he says, “we’re inside a body. So what’s inside us?”

“Jam,” she says, and punches ignition for him.