Jack tossed a little in his sleep, murmuring slightly against his pillow.

Just a nightmare, he insisted. He had to insist. He had to believe it. You're nothing. Jack hated these moments, the times when his mind seemed to flit between reality and dreams. Part of him could be so sure of it, so sure it was real. So very certain that what he was hearing in his mind wasn't a work of his own imagination.

But that was just the dreams talking. Just the idle fantasies of a nightmare.