Everything seems unrealistic. Maybe because Stan hasn't fully recovered his memories yet, or maybe because he's just not used to good things. He just hopes Ford doesn't get tired of him too quickly, because there isn't even the hint of privacy in the Stan O’ War II. At times it feels like they’re practically breathing the same air, and Stan wonders if the peace between them is going to just suddenly snap like a twig underfoot. He doesn’t like thinking that way; he wants to be optimistic, but he gets the feeling that it’s all too good to be true, especially as he crawls into the single bed with his brother. This should be weird, two grown men sharing a bed, but that first night out to sea Stan and Ford stayed up late telling stories and laughing so hard their sides ached in the morning. The second night they did the same, and then the third night they practically passed out they were so damn tired from fighting a small gale that had blown through. It’s their fourth night tonight, and as Stan curls up on his side he thinks about the bunk in the room they used to share as kids. His mind wanders and wanders until he begins to chuckle. “Remember making hand shadows? Ma would always catch us up past bedtime making them, but we’d argue that we weren’t technically out of bed so the usual punishment didn’t apply. Never worked though. You...you were great at ‘em though.”