Boone slept restlessly, every time he tossed and turned in the bunk, squeaking the bed frame and resetting his process to go to sleep once again. But sleep had eventually come, late in the night, long after the boy sleeping across the room's soft snores filled the room.

Not being able to sleep was frustrating. But he would take the frustration over what happened when he was asleep every single time. It was just too bad that in the throes of exhaustion, he forgot about that little fact and let himself fall asleep.

Just like his nightmare with his wife, Bitter Springs was always the exact same.

In the dream Boone fell off Coyote Tail Ridge. It hadn't happened like that in real life - he'd retreated and had to walk through the razed town, stumbling over bodies and body parts, so much bloody dirt kicking up on him it had taken hours to scrub it out of his pants. The smell of hot, rotting flesh had taken even longer to wash off of himself.

He'd burned the clothes, of course. Spent a good chunk of his bonus he'd gotten on a new uniform, but he didn't give a shit. Hush money. "Sorry we fucked up" money.

In his dream, he fell, and landed in a pile of corpses, all extraordinarily bloody, splashing onto his face and his hands. It got into his mouth, warm and metallic and nauseating as always. It shouldn't be like that. Gunshots bled, of course, but not that much, and not that quickly, especially when the victim died right away. It took a bit before the blood poured out so profusely. But not in his dream.

And the more he struggled, the more he couldn't move. It was like every time he moved he made it worse. Broken, bludgeoned, bloody bodies suffocated him. The worst part of the dirty, dusty blood pit was that Boone would swim there for eternity if he could avoid what happened next. What actually happened, not whatever his psyche made up to torture him when he dared to fall asleep.

He struggled out from under the mire and stood. Ahead of him he saw his unit retreating, trudging slowly along out of Canyon 37. He knew he had to follow. As much as he willed his feet to stop moving, to stay put, he could not control it.

He walked forward. His foot snagged on something, and he looked back at what he tripped on.

A little kid. A boy, with sad, brown eyes looking up at him with a gunshot through his stomach, staining his clothes red. Clutching a teddy bear in his hands, which had gotten shot, too.

"Where's my mommy?"

And every single time, Boone could not move, could not do anything, because that's what happened in real life. He had frozen, completely and utterly useless and ineffective, until another soldier had shot the kid in the head without even blinking. Not Manny, of course. Manny had known what was coming, had seen the writing on the walls.

He should have pretended to be sick. Should have known it was screwed up from the start.

But the next part of the dream, the part where he had to watch the kid's eyes go glossy, the blood come out of his mouth, his chest rise and fall one last time, did not come. Instead, the kid opened his mouth again. "Boone," the kid cried. Boone jumped back, a yelp escaping his lips. Why did he know his name? "Boone. Wake up."

"Agh! Fuck!" Boone gasped, forcing himself to control his breathing. He no longer saw the kid but instead the gray interior of the Mojave Outpost barracks. His chest was shaking with the effort, begging for him to pant, quickly inhaling and exhaling, but Boone tried to restrain himself. He did not want to give into the fear, the anguish, the utter horror that paralyzed his entire body.

He was shaking. Why was he shaking?

The Courier's hands were on his shoulders, jostling him awake. He kept saying his name, one syllable, over and over. "Boone. Boone. You're okay. Boone."

His breathing slowed, his heart still beating, sweat beaded on his forehead.

"You were dreaming," the Courier said, withdrawing his hands. "Tossing, turning, you started shouting shit, too. Disturbed my beauty rest." He sat back on his haunches, chuckling. The boy was still in his underwear, his hair mussed up from sleep. "Are you good?"

"Bad dream," Boone muttered, staring at the top of the bunk. The light outside was weakly shining through the window. It must almost be morning. He rubbed his face, the stubble no longer prickly but softer. He reminded himself to shave before they left for the day.

"Was it… about your wife?"

"Don't talk about Carla," Boone grunted. A warning. He was not in the mood for that.

The Courier rolled his eyes, raising his hands in defeat. "My bad. You just kept muttering no over and over, so I figured I'd ask."

Still reeling, Boone decided he would get up and ignore the topic completely. He had to pee. He was thirsty, needed to shave, and had to pee. Those were three things he could solve, hoping it would expel the jittering in his chest and his fingers.

Boone sat up, narrowly avoiding banging his head into the bunk above him, and grabbed for his canteen. He emptied his canteen into his mouth, consuming the last of his water, before he stood up. His head still spun. He still saw the stupid little dying boy asking Boone where his mother was.

God, he needed to get a grip.

Leaving the boy sitting on the ground, Boone silently grabbed his pack and moved to the bathroom. Right as he was about to shut the door so he could pee, he noticed he wasn't alone.

He had a shadow.

The Courier stood, leaning against the doorway, his arms folded in front of him. His blond hair stood up in the front, like he'd slept on it wrong.

"About yesterday…"

Whatever. He'd shave first. He dug in his pack for his soap and his razor, running the tap so it would heat up, if it could. But as he washed and lathered his face, the Courier stared at him, like he was waiting for a response.

"What about yesterday?" he said.

"I guess… I'm sorry for blowing up at you."

"Yeah?" Boone scraped the straight razor across his stubble, clearing a patch of skin free of hair.

The shaving doctrine had been ingrained in Boone since enlisting. He didn't really know why the military mandated a clean shaven face. His commanders said it was for hygiene, but judging by the lack of hygiene facilities the army made available to them, it probably wasn't that. Their starting kit contained only a toothbrush, soap, shaving cream, and a razor, not much else, which ran out quickly when burning in the heat of the wastes.

But Boone liked it. He liked the smooth feel of his face on his hands, liked how the sweat didn't gather in his hair, making him hotter and stickier than he had to be. He even took it a step further and kept the hair on his head as short as possible. His beret sat better that way and it made him sweat less. It gave him an excuse to keep clean anyway.

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault that… yeah."

"Like hell it is," Boone grunted. "If you're planning on going and working for the Legion, this isn't going to work out." He'd finished half of his face by that point, wiping off some of the remaining shaving cream.

He shook his head. "No. I don't think so. You're right, slavery is far worse than not letting guys like me serve."

"Yeah." He resumed shaving, the motions perfunctory and routine, as he cleared the remaining stubble from his face.

Still, the Courier persisted.

"So are we good?"

Boone dipped his head into the sink, washing off the rest of the shaving cream from his face. When he emerged, he saw the boy offering his hand out for a handshake.

Boone grabbed it impatiently, not really shaking it but slapping it out of the way instead.

"Yes. Can you get the fuck out so I can take a piss?"

The two got ready, Boone packing up his things hastily, and they stopped at the bar to stock up on water. The Courier assured Boone it was a short walk over to Red Rocks when the only other person sitting at the bar cut into their conversation.

"Where are y'all heading?" the woman sitting at the bar slurred. Boone had to admire the dedication it took to become stumbling, slurring drunk before noon. She must get started early.

"Red Rocks," the Courier said. "Chasing a group of Khans."

The woman shook her head. "That's all wrong. The people here've been talking about a run-in at Boulder City between the NCR and the Great Khans. Like history repeatin' itself."

"Can you tell me more about it? The Khans, I mean."

Boone extended his hand for the Courier's canteen. "I'll refill 'em."

He had to get out. He didn't need a history lesson about the relations between the NCR and the Khans. He didn't need someone else to confirm what the little voices in his head said on repeat. Especially not a drunk woman stuck at a trade outpost. What did she know, anyway?

Filling up the canteens, Boone tried to breathe, tried to force himself to inhale and exhale, but every time he did, the sickening feeling that had lodged itself in his chest after that damned nightmare wrapped around, constricting his throat. Fucking murderer. Useless. Worthless. NCR murderer.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Just be normal. Just be goddamned, ordinary, every day normal. Stretching his head up to the sky, he bumped the part he'd just rubbed into the muzzle of his rifle. Familiar. He washed his hands once more, trying to shock himself into thinking again instead of spiraling.

Usually he could shove these thoughts out of his head. It was easy back in Novac, where he only had the constant barrage of memories of his wife. Harder out in the wasteland, where around every corner, he seemed to run into someone who knew their history, who had so much to say about Bitter Springs and the NCR and First Recon marksmen.

How would they know he was there in the first place, anyway?

As if it were not evident on his face whenever it was mentioned. Boone had never had a good poker face. When he gambled, he stuck to roulette and other games of chance.

When his fingers were cold and stiff, he remembered to take his hand out of the water spigot. Remembered he had more pressing matters than sitting and feeling sorry for himself at a dingy little NCR trading outpost in the middle of nowhere. He returned to the front of the building where the blond stood, waiting for him.

"There you are. So, it appears the Khans moved," the Courier announced. His eyebot hovered right over his shoulder. "We are not taking a short walk to Red Rocks, but instead a pretty long one down to Boulder City, where it sounds like the Khans and the NCR are in some sort of stalemate. Down there is the guy who we have to talk to." He withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, setting one between his teeth and lighting it.

Boone frowned. Yes, the Khans moved, but not that much, and not across the wasteland in a matter of days. He should know. He'd tracked the Khans long enough with the First Recon. Although the nomadic tribe moved, a move that sudden was not typical.

"I don't think they moved," Boone finally settled on saying.

"What do you mean?" The boy's words were muffled by his cigarette. As he exhaled, a puff of gray smoke filtered out of his mouth, dissipating into the air above him.

"I mean, do we really think they up and moved their entire base in the few days between when you talked to Manny and when we got here?"

A wave of understanding flickered across the kid's face. He gummed the cigarette thoughtfully, taking another drag, letting the smoke blow over his face. "So why the hell did Manny tell me to go to Red Rocks, then?" the Courier muttered.

"Probably because he's a piece of shit," Boone muttered. It was true, after all. Certainly anyone that spineless in family matters would find no issue in lying to someone he barely knew, even if that someone had just saved his town from feral ghouls.

Withdrawing the cigarette from his mouth, the boy took the opportunity to chew on his lip thoughtfully. The skin on it was red and ragged, not actively bleeding but looked as though it had recently stopped.

"No, I don't think it's that."

Sure it wasn't. The Courier didn't know Manny like Boone did. "What does it matter, anyway? How much travel time does that add for us?"

Shrugging, the kid threw a projectile at Boone. A mutfruit. Breakfast, Boone supposed. In exchange Boone relinquished the Courier's canteen. "A day. Maybe two. I bought extra food, a few bottles of water. We should be fine."

Although walking in the heat for an extra day or two would be grueling, Boone figured it would be a welcome distraction. And so the group continued on into the wastes, where so many caravaneers refused to push on through due to the danger.

The Courier had just finished his cigarette when Boone slammed him down behind a rock.

"Cazadores," Boone said. "Stay down."

The stupid eyebot ventured ahead, attracting the attention of the nearest one. The lasers shot its wing, but the fly-like creature struck back with a vengeance, striking down the bot where it flew. ED-E would get up again, of course, once it reset itself, but that would be a minute or two. And if the cazador saw them, they would not have the time.

"What's a cazador?" the boy whispered, pulling his pistol from its spot on his hip.

"They're big, nasty fuckers," Boone responded, his voice barely audible. "Their poison can kill a grown man in a minute if they strike you."

"So how do you kill 'em?"

One of the smaller ones fluttered over to ED-E's lifeless shell, stopping to perch on him. Boone aimed and hit it straight in the head. It keeled over, its internal yellow liquid spilling onto the dust below it, spraying ED-E's motionless shell.

"You pick them off one by one," Boone whispered. "You don't let them swarm you. You're dead if even two of them get the drop on you."

"So we need to count them," the kid confirmed. He squinted, his eyelid twitching with the effort, before withdrawing his binoculars. "Three left."

Boone nodded. Staring down his sight, he tracked one of them, the one that ventured farthest away from the group. Methodical and thoughtful, Boone waited for the beast to fly a little farther away, so its sudden death would not be immediately noticed by its friends.

He aimed. He breathed. And he squeezed.

He hit it, squarely in the abdomen, but that did not kill the thing.

"Shit."

Boone stood, firing again, which struck the cazador down, but not without signaling the other two to their location. They flew fast, all at once, angry at being disturbed, right at the two's location. Three rounds left. Once he reloaded, he was dead.

The Courier shot from his pistol wildly. A bullet whizzed past Boone's ear, and if he weren't currently occupied, he would have admonished his companion for almost getting him killed. However, he was more disturbed by the cazador's terrifying stinger chasing after him. He sprinted away backwards, refusing to succumb to the beast's poison. One correctly placed shot and he was dead.

Although Boone would not have minded death, he did not want it at the stinger of a damned cazador.

And he would not die, not today. He got far enough away to aim and fire, so close to the bug that it stopped moving forward. And by the grace of God, or luck, or whatever the fuck, the Courier stabbed the last one with his machete, tearing it in half.

Panting, Boone stared down at the thing's giant red eyes

"God, I have got to learn how to shoot," the Courier whined, cleaning his knife on the knee of his jumpsuit. It left a trail of yellow goo, but the boy did not seem to mind.

"I'll say. You almost fucking shot me," Boone muttered. Ignoring him, the boy approached ED-E, picking him up. He slapped the side of the eyebot, and it beeped to life, the sounds almost indignant at being cut down in the midst of battle. Tapping at the thing's interface, the boy made the robot spring back into the air.

Then he turned his attention to the dead cazadores lying around them.

"Will people buy cazador poison glands?" the Courier wondered, ripping it out of the fly closest to him. Boone just shrugged. ED-E bobbed up and down unevenly, as if the robot was regaining its footing after waking up from a coma.

Boone just watched as the boy loped over to the beast that had almost ended him and ripped out another poison gland.

"Hey Boone," the Courier said. "Can I tell you a joke?"

Boone said nothing. He scanned the horizon for any threats and came up empty. He supposed it was fine if the kid told him a joke.

"Okay. So I told my therapist I was having nightmares about a nuclear apocalypse. He said it wasn't the end of the world." He looked back at Boone, a lopsided grin on his face, waiting for Boone to react. "Get it? It's funny because we're in a nuclear apocalypse, and because you had a nightmare."

Boone did not get it. When the boy cocked his head, Boone just returned a blank, confused look back.

"What don't you get?"

"What the fuck is a therapist?"