Henry Mullen had nightmares: scenes from his childhood, stick-like figures walking through the dust. He remembered the gaunt faces and swollen bellies, his own body, his own brittle bones, so brittle that lifting a bag of rice broke two bones in his hand. They never did heal right. And he remembered seeing his mother and his brother die. Silently, solemnly, they just stopped moving. The nightmares got worse as he got closer to Raphael. The science ship was two weeks away and he was having them every time he slept, often two, three times a night. The nightmares always started with images of emaciated bodies and people with dead looking eyes just waiting and it always ended with shadowy figures moving towards him through the green-gray fog. He knew that once they were safely on the moon, his nightmares would go away. It was the waiting. Henry Mullen hated waiting more then anything else. When he was a child that was all he could do. Wait for the supplies. Wait for the food. Wait for his family to finally die.