He was singing.
"'Liquor' she said
And lick her I did."
He sang sometimes – well if you could call that singing. And the selection of tunes was most unusual.
Then it occurred to her, he was happy. How in God's name could he be happy here? Okay, on occasions he was absolutely morose, depressed tinged with seething anger – this she understood.
Life was hard. They struggled every day for enough food to eat; there was no way home. The doorway was tantalizingly within sight but not within their reach. The natives were not above stealing you last morsel of food or the filling from your molars if you yawned. The shack they lived in, while far better than the ones inhabited by the locals, was cramped and mere inches from being inundated by raw sewage and the playground of the local equivalent of roaches and rats.
So, why the hell was he singing? Lemons into lemonade? No, that was not the Jack O'Neill she knew. Had he given up hope of getting home? He didn't sound drunk. Or, oh my god, could it be…Had he found a way out? Had the poor man gone off the deep end, nuts, three fries short of a Happy Meal… wacko?