“There were nine of us,” he says. Like I don't know that already. I was one of those nine; I was there. He doesn't really remember, though. Every time he tells the story, he treats me like I'm someone new, someone who didn't share every experience, every horrific moment with him. But I was there. I did see what he saw, and I know.
He grips my arm. “Tony, stop,” I say, attempting to wrest control of my wrist back from him. “I know, Tony. I know because I was there, remember?”
Tony doesn't stop. If anything he holds on tighter. Can he really not remember that I was one of the nine people he's talking about?
“There were nine of us, two of us were just there for the ride, to help out in case things needed fixing, but then there were the science guys; four of them, and the flight crew (two again), and then there was the cook, cause you know there's nothing quite like a voyage without