"I dreamed of it, doctor. A mission again." He said to me one morning, pulling the blanket around himself and stepping out of his tiny bedroom part of the ship. I've been up sometime longer than this, working on notes for my secondary research project. He's been sleeping for a long time, but my job is to be a companion and monitor. I checked on him a couple times, and wondered what was going on. I knew now, it was another dream.
"I had big guns," he continues, sitting in the chair next to me and pulling the blanket around his boxered self, taking care to tuck himself in like a small child. His eyes are staring forward into the blackness and sheet metal.
"We were running through a passage. There were only 5 of us. I got shot once. That's where this one came from," he pulls the blanket aside. A long scar runs along his right arm. I am scribbling notes on a pad now, the laptop long forgotten and cast aside. I take note of the location of the scar. His big green eyes are still s