The event horizon shimmers in the blackness, sucking time. We steer a course parallel to where Jeff was last seen, his feet sinking into the quagmire of infinity. His arms, that had been reported as waving but fixed, are now absent.
I suggest getting closer and dropping in a line. He can’t be far from the edge. It would be risky, and I like risks, nearly as much as Jeff.
When the others outvote me I pretend not to be relieved, and mourn Jeff. Will he have vanished yet, separated out into the atoms that composed him?
I’d like to look over the rim.
If I hang a cup into that quagmire, might I gather up some of his essence? Or will I anchor us all on the cusp, never able to pull away, only to ossify in the airlocked cabin that marks the point where I still could recognise the man?