Of course, he was declared unfit for active duty, and since riding a desk had never been his thing, he poured himself into med school. Finally, he worked up to an hour at a time. He’d agreed to sleep willingly-fifteen-minute intervals at first. He’d hated it, because he couldn’t climb out of the nightmares, had to remain there, pathetic, scared, silently screaming for help. The docs finally had to drug him in order to get him into REM. Because at first, the lack of sleep nearly killed him. Prophet, the FNG, lifted him out and carried him to the waiting helo where the medics declared him dehydrated and malaria-ridden but otherwise healthy. He wanted to walk but his arms and legs wouldn’t work. The water gushed in, sometimes threatening to drown him, but it kept him alive. He’d been lucky to have been captured during the rainy season. But realistically, you could only survive like this for so long. They thought you were dead, he realized, and at times he thought so as well, even though he’d never given up hope.
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