From the (mentally recorded) Journal of Davy Jackson
Oh, gods. I just figured it out! The man I told you about before, Daniel the language-babbling, Rowanic garbage can moron, is my father! We have the same initials. Gods, the journal he keeps waving around, the leather one with the initials D.J. embossed on the front? I knew it looked familiar. My father (him) gave me an identical one. D.J. Daniel Jackson. Wait… if he's here… That means… Oh, GODS! Samantha, the doctor! Why didn't I realize it! Samantha Carter Jackson! Oh, Duh! Wait a sec… their relationship, their attitude toward each other is entirely platonic. Where's a calendar when you need one! Wait, there's one. Quick, what's the date? Hang on, that can't be right! OH, CRAP! Great-grandpa Ballard and Uncle Jack sent me five years too far back. CRAP! Now what am I going to do!
Sigh. You know, I really wish that Dad would stop waving the garbage can around. I mean, I know it's just a trashcan, but the energy compactor could theoretically blow a fuse if he keeps prodding it in the power socket. He could probably shock himself, too, if he keeps at it.
Yep. Did I call it or what? The fuse blew, causing an EM pulse to futz with every electrical machine in the infirmary, including – is that? Yeah -- Sergeant Siler's diagnostic device. He's a few beds down from where I am. Come to think of it, whenever I came down here to visit my parents, he's always in a bed, injured.
Author's note: small bit added to this chapter. Also, have you ever noticed that whenever there's an infirmary scene with SG-1, Siler is occupying one of the beds 95 percent of the time. The other 5 percent is Walter Davis. ;)