I paid a steep price for my three hours of happiness that night. When we returned to base, Vasquez and I showered in our separate rooms to get the sand and salt off us, and then met up in my room. Everything on my mind seemed to come back down like a ton of bricks, and I found myself in a depressed state. I felt bad that I had returned to this, but I kept telling myself I had no control.

Vasquez didn't seem upset, and decided that we could just cuddle instead of make love if I wasn't feeling up to it. I was honest when I said I wasn't, and we simply snuggled together in bed. That's where the steep price came into play; I was having nightmares. All I heard was screaming and crying, and I wasn't sure where it was all coming from. It sounded eerily like Hudson. I felt hopeless, and I started screaming as well.

I was shaken awake because I kept tossing, turning, and whimpering. "Drake, wake up," Vasquez hissed. "Drake, you're having bad dreams. Wake up."

I jolted upright, taking a moment to comprehend where I was. Glancing at Vasquez, I said, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Vasquez replied, giving me a hug. "Are you OK now?"

"No." I swallowed past a lump in my throat. "I . . . I have to check on Hudson."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I think I heard his voice in my dream."

"Drake, it was just a dream."

"I know, but . . . something's telling me to go check on him." Grabbing a pair of pants, I hurried out the door while zippering up my fly. I anxiously entered sick bay, and searched for Hudson's room, my heart starting to pound harder. When I found it, I opened the door, afraid of what I might find.

Thank God I found nothing.

Hudson was asleep. A highly sensitive temperature control system was in the window. When I entered the room, it turned on a fan. The monitors were showing his vital signs were all normal, aside from his temperature, which was still elevated. Breathing a sigh of relief, I left the room. It really was just a bad dream.

I went back to my room, finding Vasquez had gone back to sleep. At least, I thought she was asleep when I crawled into bed; as I rested my head on the pillow, she put her arm around me, and pulled herself closer, putting her head on my shoulder. "Is he OK?" she whispered.

"Yeah, he's fine," I replied. "Again, I'm sorry."

"Relax. It's alright. Hey, at least if something was wrong, you would've done something, right?"

"I would." I gave Vasquez a kiss on her forehead. "Good-night."


Around seven in the morning, I would awaken to find Vasquez had left. I wasn't upset, considering she probably heard someone outside and decided to head to her room before that someone discovered we were together. After getting dressed, I walked to the mess hall, where Hicks ordered me to sit down before standing at the head of the table to give an announcement. I noticed Hudson was with us. He looked pale and tired, and was picking at his food absentmindedly.

"Listen up," Hicks started, "Over the last couple days, we've had some incidents where the topic of mental health has been brought up, either directly or indirectly. It's not something we can avoid. Mental health is just as important as physical health, and I don't want any of you to think that we prioritize one over the other. However, when it comes to guys like you, you may be thinking that having an issue with your mental health makes you appear weak; it doesn't. Things happen. As Marines, it's our job to go into combat. That's the number one cause for post-traumatic stress disorder among us. That's not the only cause, though, and that's not the only problem we have. Accidents can be a source, too, and I'm not going to name names."

I saw Ferro roll her eyes before mouthing, "Drake."

"I said, I'm not naming names." Hicks glared at her. "I know you all pick on each other all the time, but when you work together on something, I've seen you pull through. I want you to do the same with this."

"So, you want us all to become crying pillows?" Vasquez asked.

"No. I just want you to know that we all have problems on our minds, and you need to think about that when communicating with each other."

Please stop painting a target on my back, I thought.

"I don't care if it's something little, or something major. We suck at communicating. That stops today, do you all understand?"

Everyone except me said, "Yes, sir."

"Do you all understand?" Hicks glared at me.

I sighed. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I'm going to talk to you all individually today to see where we're at."


I really wanted to avoid Hicks today, so I spent the rest of the morning in my room, working on my test. The next section was general science. Again, the first few questions were stupid, and those that followed made me feel stupid. I took a break partway through, and began going the previous sections. I wished I had some degree of confidence in my answers, but since I didn't, I could only hope that I was passing.

I became lost in thought, and wondered what was going to happen after I sent the test in. Was I just going to be mailed a response, or did they want me to go to Pittsburgh and receive my diploma in person? If that happened, it was probably going to be one big embarrassment fest. People I know and don't know talking about me. Maybe the papers would show up and want me as a headline: "Local Felon-Turned-Marine Receives Diploma After Years of Absolute Failure." I have a feeling that's too long, but, you get the picture.

This probably wasn't even going to happen. Either I was going to fail, or I was simply going to get my diploma through the mail with a note saying "congratulations." As much as I felt going to receive it in person would be embarrassing, I imagined just getting it in the mail would make me feel unimportant. No one wanted to see me. They just wanted to get it over with after just typing my name on a piece of paper.

Hiding my stuff in my desk, I left my room. I figured the only person who would offer me reasonable advice would be Delhoun, but I was afraid Hicks would bar me from leaving. When I approached him and Apone, he said, "If we let you go into town, can you promise to come see me when you come back?"

"Sure." I shrugged. "I'll see you."

"Good." Hicks offered a small smile, making an effort to look genuine.

I didn't say another word, and simply went to my room to grab my jacket.


Delhoun was poring over a booklet when I entered the facility's kitchen. He sighed before closing it, and said, "Do you need something, Drake?" He didn't sound too enthused, and that bothered me.

"I just . . . need someone to talk to," I replied, sitting at the table. "If you're not up to it, I understand-"

"No, no. Please. Talk away." He glanced at the booklet. "I'm sorry, I . . . I had my annual eye exam today, and they said I need to have my corrective surgery redone."

"What's going on?"

"The surgery I had when I was in high school isn't permanent, and it's starting to show, so I have to go back in a few weeks to have it fixed. What's worrying me is that I'll be wearing black goggles for the three days following the surgery, so I can't work." Delhoun sighed again. "I'm sorry, Drake. I know you didn't come here to listen to me bitch and moan."

"It's fine. I bitch and moan all the time."

"Right. So, what's the trouble now?"

I took a moment to collect my thoughts. "I blew up on Hicks a few days ago, and said some things I shouldn't have. He sounded like he was trying to help me, but I told him that he never showed concern for me unless it impacted the whole team and I said I wished I had more personal value, and then I told him to go fuck himself."

"Well, that's a little harsh. He's a higher rank than you, correct?"

"Yes. I'm a private, he's a corporal."

"I would expect that to warrant some form of punishment."

"That hasn't happened. Instead, I'm getting something worse. This morning, Hicks told us we all need to be concerned about each other's mental health, and . . . I feel like that's painting a target on my back because I've been so moody lately, especially when Russell was around. He didn't say anyone's name, but it really did feel like he was calling me out and saying I need to speak up about what's bothering me."

"He's not wrong. Your mental health is important, believe me. I understand it's difficult to talk about sometimes, and it's not a one-size-fits-all type of issue. Your brain is wired differently from mine. My brain's wired differently from Hicks's, or Hudson's, or anyone else you can name. That's why it's so challenging."

"The problem is that I feel like Hicks is doing this because our unit 'sucks at communicating.' I don't think he's expressing legitimate individual concern for me."

"He could very well be concerned for you. You're just pushing him away."

"He's never been concerned for me before-"

"Drake. Trust me. You need to give him a chance."

"I don't want to. Even if he was actually concerned for me, I don't want anyone to suspect I have PTSD. I don't want to get kicked out of the Marines. I don't have my diploma. I can't get a job. What am I supposed to do?"

Delhoun leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap while muttering, "You've got yourself caught between a rock and a bloody hard place, huh." He thought for a moment. "Drake, PTSD isn't something that you can deal with on your own. The longer you let yourself ferment in it, the worse it'll be. Not to mention, you don't even know if you have it. You haven't received a diagnosis from a doctor-"

"Then why did you bring it up?"

"Because I'm worried about you as well. You listed your issues, and I began suspecting that you could be dealing with PTSD. I didn't say you have it."

"Didn't you also say that you would help me deal with my problems without letting the Marines know?"

Delhoun held up his booklet, which I saw was about the eye surgery. "I've got my own issues. I'm taking care of around forty Annexers, and my volunteers only come in once a week. You've got a commitment with the Marines, so you're limited on how many times you can come out here."

I started feeling sick, and a dark, disgusting mass of hopelessness began rising from the pit of my stomach. It choked me, and I rubbed my face, trying to cover the fact that I wanted to cry. "Then, I'll deal with my problems myself," I said, softly. "If you can't help me, fine. I'll try and . . . talk to Vasquez as often as I can."

"I'm sure someone else would like to talk to you as well," Delhoun replied.

"Yeah? Who?"

"Aran."

"Oh." I felt my stomach sink, remembering that I told him to leave last night when Vasquez and I were having dinner. "Hopefully, he's not . . . mad at me."

"Mad at you? Jesus Christ, he's not mad at you. Why do you think he's mad at you?"

"No reason. Where is he?"

"In the yard, I think. He came by last night." Delhoun stood up, going toward a window. I joined him, and saw Aran sitting in the yard, being smothered by Annexers. "I'm sure Aran would be delighted to barge in on you a few times a week."

"As long as he isn't discovered."

"If you and Vasquez can hide your romance, then you can hide an Engineer."

"That's not even remotely similar. Besides, Vasquez and I are smart. Aran is just a giant Curious George that'll get caught and probably shipped off to a Weyland-Yutani lab."

"You don't know that, just as much as you don't know that Hicks really is trying to help you." Delhoun smiled. "I want you to think about everything I've said, Drake, and I want you to think hard, because this all is something that could have a lasting impact on you." He looked out the window again, and frowned when he saw Aran was gone. He then turned around to see Aran picking me up and hugging me tightly.

I can't deny that seeing Aran again felt good, but I'll never say that to him out loud.

"Aran, you talk to Drake while I put everyone back in their kennels," Delhoun said. There was a hint of sadness in his voice, and I suspected he was thinking about his upcoming surgery. I could understand why it was bothering him so much. It made me feel like I needed to hold up my end of the friendship by doing favors for him, especially since he's done so much for me.


Question of the Chapter: Would it be mentally healthier for Drake to receive his diploma through mail, or be invited back home for the honor?