He glared at the bed. It was too low to the ground, and it was too hot, and too soft, and it didn't sway gently as he slept, and it was completely awful, and he wanted his hammock back. The entire hotel room was awful, now that he thought about it. It was noisy, with traffic sounds coming in the window and other people stomping up and down the halls slamming doors, and the close air was stifling, and it smelled funny, all fake-flower-perfumey and strange. After fifteen years of clean ocean breezes and real tropical flowers, chemical air fresheners and cleaning solutions were making his nose want to go on strike.

And he hadn't expected, when the Coast Guard had towed them into port and a beaming lieutenant had brought them to this hotel, that they would all be put into separate rooms. Who would yell at him to shut up and go to sleep? Who would snore like a malfunctioning buzz saw all night?

He lay down on the bed again, experimentally closed his eyes. Five seconds later, they sprang open. No, there was no question about it. This bed was just no good, and he wasn't going to sleep in it, and nobody was going to make him, so there. He pulled off the quilts, spread them on the floor, and sprawled there. Five seconds later, his eyes sprang open again. No, that was marginally better, but not enough, and the room was still too strange and too closed-in and smelly and awful and unbearable and he was all alone and if this was what they called being rescued, they could keep it. He hated it and he wanted to go home.

That startled him. He blinked, taking that thought out and looking at it from all angles. Nobody else could ever know about it, he decided. They were all so happy to be rescued; that was the important thing to remember. He'd act happy, too, and keep it a deep dark secret, and maybe if nobody knew that he had a secret at all, they wouldn't try to coax him into telling it like he usually did. Yeah, that was the best thing he could do. He'd just go to sleep now, and maybe in the morning he'd have forgotten that he had a secret at all, and he could keep it secret even from himself. So he'd sleep. Now. Any minute now.

There was a knock at the door. He didn't remember ordering room service, but frankly, any distraction from this horrible room and his even more horrible homesickness was welcome, so he got up and answered it. It was the Skipper, with an armload of blankets, looking embarrassed.

"It was too quiet," the Skipper blustered. "No one asking me stupid questions, no one muttering nonsense because they were having nutty dreams… I couldn't sleep."

Gilligan grinned. "Yeah. No one was snoring, and no one was yelling at me or tipping me out of the hammock because I was bugging them. I couldn't sleep either."

The Skipper grinned back, then threw his bedding on the floor on the other side of the bed from where Gilligan had spread his own blankets and lay down. "Well, it's late and I'm tired. So pipe down already, and let me get some shut-eye! That's an order!"

Gilligan lay back down on the quilt, pulled his cap over his eyes, and smiled. It was still too noisy and the air still smelled funny, but those were problems for the next day. For now… his eyes fluttered shut as the familiar snores filled the room, and he fell peacefully asleep.