Four years, six months, and seven days.

It had been over four and a half years since his eyes had met those ones.

Four years, six months, and five days ago, Arthur's best friend had been robbed. They were left on a planet, beaten and dying. A signal was sent out to the one person they knew always would come. He was a medic, after all; and he was on duty at the time. He always answered their calls, always dropped everything to help them.

But no one came.

When he returned to his ship those years ago, hungover and sick, he realized his mistake. He saw the missed signals. He rushed to find their location, but it was far too late. The beacon read no life. He had let them die alone.

Yet here they were. Standing in front of him. Alive.