When I wake up, I at first have no idea where I am. Then, I actually raise my head slightly and look around. The room is very dimly lit, illuminated only by a single lamp on the desk in the corner. It looks as though I have somehow made it back to my own sleeping quarters, though I have no idea how that could have happened. I feel quite a bit sick. Did something go wrong? 
    "What on earth," I mumble in a low voice that can barely be heard, not really expecting for anyone to respond to my out-of-place, inopportune, probably completely crazed commentary. No one really ever answers me in the first place. When I was younger, I was never really paid much attention, except for those special fishing trips with my father. That was the only time we really connected, him and I, Without the intervening obstacles in our lives named Adanya and Natalya. The only time my father actually gave full thought process to his one and only son was when the subject matter at hand had to do with teaching me some abstract science of some sort that I could never understand with my tiny, stupid, childish mind.
    There is one particular time I can recall very clearly. I was nine years old, fresh out of the third grade. We had been doing a project on the topic of how rust formed, and I had thought that it was really interesting to learn about. When my father had suggested to my mother that I go out on his boat with him, she happily told him that it was a great idea. I was told the next morning about my new adventure, after I had complained consistently about being woken up at four o'clock in the morning for about five minutes, of course. After that, I was very excited, learning that boats were made of metal, and that that meant that they could have rust on them: perfect research for my science project.
    We got onto his small boat about an hour later, after he had fed me, made sure I was dressed, and done whatever else you need to do to make sure your children are well taken care of. There we were, going on what was quite possibly the coolest adventure ever in all of my nine short years of life.
    All was going very well for the first day or so, and I even found some rusty nails on the boat. But, of course, I was young and stupid at that time. So, I decided to touch one. Naturally, I woke up feeling the need to puke in the middle of the night, ending up with a raging case of tetanus and a long, thin gash running down my finger where I had cut it.
    My father had to take me home the next morning, sadly. I definitely had not wanted to go, and I needed to get some research done for my rust project, so it is completely fair to say that I was utterly dejected. He turned the boat around and made us go home, crushing my little spirit.
    I glance down at my right hand, staring at the light, slender, salmon-colored scar that splits the skin between my index and middle fingers. It has been a long time since I thought about that incident, and I can't seem to believe that it happened fifteen years ago. Well, nine years ago, to be honest. I did a pretty sketchy series of biological experiments when I was fifteen and managed to contract a quite prolific staph infection, which was also very unpleasant to be stricken with.
A loud bang suddenly startles me out of my stupor and removes some of the hazy sheen of shock and confusion. I coerce my newly weak muscles into moving, feeling more than a few things pop and crack as I manage to fully sit up. At least the earth is no longer feels like it is spinning beneath my feet. Well, I know it is, anyway, but that's irrelevant. I do not need to figure out the rules and regulations of dynamic astronomy right now.
    There is a knock on the door mere seconds after the crash.
    "Manny? You alive?" The voice belongs to none other than Nicholas Shaw himself.
    I give a shaky groan in response, lowering myself back down to a flat position. Of anyone in this world, the last person I want to see right now is Nick. But, I have to have a basic sense of human maturity and decency, so I try to say that he can come in as loudly as I can.
    The door creaks open, and Nick steps inside. He looks worried, but when does he not? There is always some sort of issue with him in one capacity of another. He walks over to stand by my bed, his eyes scanning over pretty much my entire body.
    "How are you doing?" He asks softly, as if he is trying to keep the volume of his voice to a minimum. With the pain that is currently stemming and radiating out from mostly everywhere in my body at once, I have to say that I really do appreciate the gesture. I guess Nick can be good at what he does, sometimes. I will give him that much.
    "I can definitely say that I have been better," I force out, the very act of talking painfully scraping my throat raw. My voice sounds awful, as I will be the first to admit. God, what hit me overnight?
    Wait, has it been a whole night, already? No, no, that can't be right. If it is true, though, then that means that we only have about twenty hours until we all end up six feet under. Or however many feet deep the ocean is. Yeah, something to that effect. If we are not first eaten by sharks or something odd like that.
    Nick reaches out one of his hands, picking up my left hand and examining it.
    "Your cut still looks pretty bad. Can I unwrap it to change the bandages?"
    I nod slowly, trying to tell him that I am completely fine with whatever he needs to do to me to make things better.