Carson nodded. "It is, yes." It had taken most of a day, but they'd finally catalogued and identified every human body in their makeshift morgue. Major Sheppard had taken the job of cajoling a Genii prisoner to perform the naming task for their deceased, but Carson needed no assistance to do so for their own. Every Earth-based human and Athosian in the city was well-known to him.

When Dr. Salas took her leave, Carson barely acknowledged the farewell. He still had to track down the Major and Dr. Weir so they could decide exactly what to do with the bodies. Truthfully, Carson only cared about the disposal of his own flock's losses; he would just as soon weigh down the corpses of the Genii and the Wraith and toss them over a pier. Somehow he didn't see that method being the one Dr. Weir approved.

Carson wasn't ready to face the Major, however, so instead of facing that chore he went to check in on his more critical patients. Two Athosians, a Genii and an SG soldier were in serious condition. Two were comatose and the others had sustained severe blood loss. One of the Athosians didn't look like he'd make it, and Carson was dreading giving the news to his kin.

"There's been no change," The nurse reported to Carson when he entered the room. "And Dr. Weir stopped by to have her leg examined again. She asked us to remind you not to miss your meeting with her at 1800 hours."

"Thank you," Carson murmured as he inspected one man's gaping chest wound. "How was she?"

"As well as could be expected," The nurse replied. "She's not keeping weight off of it like she should."

"I'll have a word with her," Carson said as he turned to leave. He knew talking to Weir wouldn't do any good; few of them had the luxury of keeping to their beds now, and even if they did have that freedom guilt would keep them on their feet.

On his way to find Dr. Weir, Carson stopped by Rodney's lab. He wanted nothing more than to walk in and beg Rodney to take the evening off and spend it with him, watching old movies. It would make Carson feel better, let him forget about the past days' violence and yesterday night's fiasco. But Rodney was obviously busy, immersed in solving the city's latest crisis. He and Zelenka were talking animatedly, waving their hands around as Kavanagh groused and cursed his objections. Rodney looked up briefly and caught Carson's eye, but the doctor waved him off and left quickly, before any of the scientists tried to stop him. They were unharmed, for the most part, and didn't need him around distracting them.

"Dr. Beckett."

Carson heard his name and spun around to find Major Sheppard standing in the hallway. "Ah, yes. I was just on my way to find Dr. Weir," He said, his voice stiff with formality. "We have a meeting."

"I know," Sheppard murmured. "I think I'm invited to it. Something about the walking wounded, the not-walking wounded, and the not-walking-because-they're-dead."

Carson scowled at Sheppard's cavalier attitude towards his concerns. "We could skip the meeting and store the bodies in your bedroom if you prefer, Major," He spat, instantly regretting his lack of emotional control. Carson turned back around and hurried away to Dr. Weir's office, knowing that if he walked the distance with John, he'd say something else he'd end up wanting to take back.

Dr. Weir was discussing something with Teyla when Carson arrived, and the doctor could see that they were definitely not agreeing with each other. He wasn't the least bit surprised; the Athosians had not taken well to the strict guidelines Major Sheppard and Dr. Weir had implemented following the invasion. Carson himself didn't enjoy being constantly monitored and unable to take solitary walks whenever he wished to do so, but he understood why such protocols were important.

Besides that, Carson wasn't very impressed with the Athosians at the moment. Most of them had chosen not to defend the city and were overrepresented among the dead and wounded due in large part to where they had chosen to hide themselves. The Wraith had picked them off easily and earlier than they had the Stargate personnel. A few Athosians died fighting the Genii, but not many considering their numbers and Carson couldn't help but think that the Athosians didn't really care who had control of Atlantis. Perhaps their attitude would change having seen what kind of havoc the Genii wrought upon their adopted home.

After a few minutes, Carson saw Teyla storm out of Dr. Weir's office, so he approached her door. "We're still meeting?" He asked as he stepped inside. A shadow in the corner of his eye turned into Major Sheppard, who must've been lurking not far away.

"Yes, please take a seat," Dr. Weir said quietly. "I understand that most of your patients are recovering nicely?"

"Most, yes," Carson confirmed. "One Athosian and the Genii aren't likely to see tomorrow, but our man and the other Athosian are on the mend. The rest have been released, but they should stay off their feet for a few days."

"They will," Major Sheppard confirmed. "I've assigned them desk work."

"And I believe Dr. McKay has the injured scientists doing some sort of computer project that doesn't require actual movement," Dr. Weir added. The only way anyone had been able to talk Carson into letting most of his patients out of his immediate care had been to promise they would be put to work doing things that required no exertion whatsoever. He suspected that his wishes would be dropped within a day or two, but if those injured people got even a few hours of uninterrupted healing time, they would be better for it.

"Actually, I've only got one real issue to deal with," Carson said, glad to hear that they wouldn't be spending hours rehashing everything he'd already dealt with. He wanted to be away from Major Sheppard and in his own quarters for a few hours' sleep.

"The morgue is kinda crowded, isn't it?" The Major said evenly.

Carson nodded, his eyes still on Dr. Weir. "That would be the problem. We can't take the bodies to the mainland for burial; it's too dangerous."

Dr. Weir sighed. "Teyla is insisting we allow the Athosians to perform their traditional death rites."

"Which involve what, exactly?" Sheppard asked tentatively.

"Cremation," She replied. "Within three days of death."

Carson frowned. He'd never heard of anyone finding such a facility in the city. "Did she say where?"

"I don't think the location matters so much as the actual ceremony," Dr. Weir said. "But she is quite insistent."

"Yeah, because she's in such a great position to negotiate," Sheppard muttered. "And what about the Genii and the Wraith?"

"We've set aside a few Wraith for study," Carson said in a near-whisper. "Can't we just weigh down the rest and scuttle them?"

Dr. Weir and Major Sheppard were silent as they thought. "How deep is the ocean around the city?" Sheppard asked after a moment.

"Not deep enough," Dr. Weir said sharply. "We're not dumping them in the water."

"Stacking them on a pier isn't an option," Carson retorted. "Leaving corpses lying around is practically begging for every scavenger in the city to come out and take over." And that didn't even get into the insects and such that would surely find the bodies.

"But...the Athosians could do their cremation out on a pier, couldn't they?" Sheppard offered. "Way out on the end, away from the populated areas."

"They could," Dr. Weir admitted. "We could also burn the Wraith, if we have enough fuel."

"What about the air?" Carson asked. "Could the shield interfere with air flow? If it does, burning the bodies will poison the rest of us."

"I'll clear it with Dr. McKay," Dr. Weir replied. "Barring any air quality issues, we'll go with that solution."

Carson nodded slowly. "Is there anything else?"

"How are we doing on medical supplies?" She asked, pulling up a file on her computer.

"Well enough," Carson said. "Not short enough on anything to warrant getting concerned--yet."

"Good. Now, we have a significant number of prisoners," She continued, frowning at her report, "Mostly uninjured."

Carson stood up. "I doubt you need me for this," He said, walking to the door. "I'll keep you updated regarding the injured."

Dr. Weir nodded and turned back to Major Sheppard, who was obviously gearing up to defend his preferences for dealing with the captured Genii.

Carson walked slowly to his quarters, tired from the long day as well as the inevitable emotional drain that death brought. He'd lost acquaintances and enemies, one at his own hand, and Carson was pretty sure he hadn't dealt with any of it yet. Right now, he just didn't have the energy to do so. Besides, every time he thought about the Genii he'd shot, his mind dredged up memories of the night before, when John had turned comfort into something else entirely.

Inevitably, Carson's thoughts turned to John's reaction. He was confused and angry at the man's choice of retreat, running as though Carson was contagious. Never before had Carson had someone leave like that. Oh, there had been a couple of mornings-after when one or both parties had wondered why they'd done what they'd done, and those mornings had contained more than their share of awkwardness, but never had they been so jarringly absolute.

Carson desperately wanted to grab Rodney and cry on the man's shoulder, but that just wouldn't do. Rodney was far too busy for such things, and Carson wasn't entirely sure the man would be very sympathetic considering the way he acted around the Major. It wasn't that Carson thought Rodney couldn't look past his own attraction to John, but right now he probably didn't have the energy to devote himself to Carson's problems as well as the city's. Even in his misery, Carson would rather Rodney focus on the more important issue of keeping them all alive.

Carson's fractured self simply wasn’t a priority.

•••

"You know," Rodney said casually as he walked into Carson's office, "No matter how grossly inappropriate it is, I can't get certain Monty Python skits out of my head."

Carson looked up from his computer, absurdly grateful that Rodney was interrupting him. "If you start quoting the undertaker's, I'll make sure your next physical involves a Russian nurse, a jar of Vaseline and a bucket of ice cubes."

Rodney leaned against Carson's desk, grinning. "Promise?" He replied eagerly. Then his face fell back into its now-standard look of frustrated fatigue.

"I take it you're not here in any professional capacity?" Carson inquired, pushing away from his computer. "I don't see any blood."

"Actually, I stopped by to see if you've had supper," Rodney said seriously. "Some of your staff was telling some of my staff that you've been skipping meals--and spending a lot of time in the morgue."

Carson rubbed his eyes, cringing when he smelled antiseptic and Wraith on his hands. "It was one bloody lunch, we don't have the power available to put the bodies in stasis, and this is our best chance to study Wraith physiology."

"Oh, well, I can see that," Rodney replied reasonably. "Just so long as you aren't trying to work in quality time with Kolya now that he's incapacitated."

"Wouldn't matter if I did," Carson muttered, "Sheppard didn't exactly leave me much to work with."

Rodney watched, fascinated as Carson winced whilst saying the Major's name. The issue of skipping meals had been his primary reason for coming by, but Rodney was also simply concerned about Carson's state of mind. Unlike Rodney, Carson didn't have a stomach for violence. While Rodney himself didn't prefer it, he was perfectly capable of killing should his life depend on it. He didn't necessarily like knowing that truth, but it did remain. Obviously Carson could kill, but that death was weighing on him heavily.

And now Rodney wondered why mentioning John would bring Carson a measure of pain. "Come on, there's supper with your name on it," Rodney murmured, tilting his head toward the door.

Carson shook his head. "I'd rather not, thanks."

"Not in the mess hall," Rodney added. "I've got food in my room. No crowds, no Weir, no annoying Lieutenants with overactive imaginations."

"It's not that Ford's question was so awful," Carson said, "But his understanding of tact and timing is unbelievable."

Rodney snickered. "You mean you wouldn't wait until the middle of a meeting with Dr. Weir to ask if Wraith are well-hung?"

"It would depend entirely on how much I wanted to be kicked out of the meeting," Carson admitted. "Although Ford did seem a little upset at the reprimand."

"It doesn't matter. Stand up, turn off your computer, and make your excuses," Rodney ordered. "I am, very technically, your boss, so I'm telling you to take a few hours off and go eat. With me, or if you prefer, by yourself."

Carson considered objecting, but even as he thought about it he watched his hand reach out and kill the power to his computer. Seeing that his body had made up his mind for him, Carson stood up and joined Rodney, who by now was pacing in front of the door. "Where did you get the energy to do that?" Carson asked as they exited the office. "I can barely walk, much less pace."

"The more I move, the less likely I am to fall asleep on my feet," Rodney replied. The medical staff waved at Carson as they left, and Rodney noted that they appeared to need rest as much as Carson did--well, as much as everyone in the city did. Rodney knew the situation was getting critical when he was thinking of asking Dr. Weir to order people to take a shift off and do nothing but sleep.

"So," Rodney began as they walked through the hallways, their footsteps echoing around them, "What exactly are we going to do about the bodies?"

A chill ran down Carson's arms and he rubbed his hands along them for warmth and contact. "Given what you've told us about the shield, we'll probably cremate them," He said quietly. "At least, the Wraith. They're thinking about sending the Genii prisoners back through the 'gate--with their dead. The Athosians are taking over for their own lost ones."

"At least if they're cremated, we'll have something to send home," Rodney said bitterly. "It's not out of the question to 'gate to an uninhabited world and bury them there..." Even as he said it, Rodney knew it wouldn't happen. For one, they didn't have the resources to do that at the moment, and for another, it wasn't wise to give up control of their people--living or dead--in such a manner.

Major Sheppard appeared in the hallway, walking with several of his men. They were discussing security sweeps for the lower levels but Rodney tuned them out for the most part--at least he did until he glanced over at Carson. The doctor's face was twisted in a rictus of pain, although the expression vanished after a couple of seconds. Carson then fixed his eyes on a distant point down the hallway until well after the Major and his companions had disappeared.

Rodney had never noticed Carson and John not getting along before, but now he was forced to reconsider. Carson wouldn't have made that face for no reason, and it was the second time in a very short while that he'd responded badly to John's name or presence. He was still musing on Carson's reaction to John when they arrived and Rodney ushered Carson in.

"This seems vaguely familiar," Carson murmured as they sat down to MREs and water. "But I'm not sleeping on your couch. Those things could double as torture devices."

Rodney looked over at the offending furniture. "It's not all that bad; I sleep on mine at least as often as I sleep on the bed."

"That's just the Canadian in you," Carson countered between bites of food. "Too polite to insult the damned thing."

Rodney shook his head and tried to smirk. The result was closer to a wry grimace. "I've never had a polite moment in my life. If I don't respect someone in the morning, it's because I didn't respect them the night before. The same thing's true for the couch; it sleeps me just fine and if it didn't, you'd see it in the hallway with a 'free to willing masochist' sign pinned to a cushion."

Carson laughed weakly at Rodney, but the scientist could see that he'd hit a nerve. Rodney had chosen his words carefully, testing out a hypothesis he'd come up with after they passed Major Sheppard in the hall. In Rodney's experience, people reacted the way Carson did for only a very few reasons. He couldn't see John attacking Carson, nor accusing him of murder for shooting the Genii soldier. What Rodney could very well envision, however, was John taking advantage of Carson, or of at the very least letting the trauma of their recent battle serve as an excuse for incredibly poor judgment--and then taking his guilt out on Carson afterwards.

It made sense, from Rodney's perspective. John was the type to resort to physical affection as a way to alleviate stress. After all, he was a Top Gun kinda guy, complete with cocky self-assuredness. Carson wasn't an ogre and had an inherently gentle nature that lent itself to close contact. Rodney didn't think Carson had any serious attachment to John, although he could certainly be wrong, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be hurt by rejection. From what little he'd seen, it appeared as though John had done just that.

Then again, John was military and soldiers were usually dickheads when it came to interpersonal interactions. If anyone could turn a one-night-stand into an emotional nuclear bomb, it would be a certain US Air Force Major.

But Rodney wasn't going to say anything, not to Carson or anyone else, because it wasn't his place. After all, he could be wrong--although Rodney was almost positive he was right. If and when Carson decided to talk to him about it, he would, and Rodney would be there for him. Rodney understood the Major's attraction, all too well, considering the fact that he wouldn't have minded spending a few hours in John's bed, but that didn't mean he wouldn't also like very much to disembowel the guy for hurting Carson. John was a crush, and an illogical one at that. Carson was a friend, and Rodney valued friends far more than infatuations.

•••

John took one look in the mess hall and did an about-face. He had a stash of power bars and War and Peace in his quarters, and right now he was in no mood to endure a room packed full of soldiers just to enjoy tonight's dubious cuisine. At best, he only had four hours before someone, somewhere, needed his input before they did something, somewhere that might hurt someone, somewhere else. John had found that one major drawback to the so-called military mindset was the inability to decide whether to shit or go blind without some sort of direct order from a commanding officer.

John understood why Rodney occasionally asked if he could shoot one of the soldiers; right now John himself wouldn't mind taking out a couple of them himself. It wasn't that they were actively fucking things up, or not doing what they were told. The problem was that most of them were a little too good at being soldiers and thus forgot that most of the people in the city were civilians. That fact didn't change the rules, or the near-martial law that existed after the invasion, but a little empathy went a long way. John knew this instinctively, which was probably why he got in trouble so often.

When he reached his quarters, John was honestly surprised no one was waiting outside his door. People kept popping up at all hours, thinking that since he was in charge, he'd know how to design a reloading mechanism for the rail guns that could convert human waste into gunpowder. After all, if he shot the bullets he should know how to replace them.

With just a little effort, John could come to hate scientists. That is, if he wasn't best friends with one, working for another, and incredibly guilty over treating a third like a hooker. No, John thought as he slid into his quarters, he hadn't treated Carson like a whore. After all, whores got paid. He'd sat up, rolled out of bed and left before Carson could wake up and say something that would make it real.

John thought the door locked and the lights on, shrugging off his gear and letting it fall to the floor. His hands twitched with the desire to pick his shit up and put it away, but he didn't let himself do it. The pile of sweat-stained, oily fabric and metal was a jarring note in an otherwise Spartan room that stood in testament of John's training.

The power bars were in a box next to his novel, so John grabbed a handful and walked toward his balcony, ripping the blanket off his bed as he passed. His pillow flew through the air and the sheet fluttered to the ground, but he didn't bother to pick them up either. John wanted his room messy and disturbed. Disorganized. Chaotic.

The climate of Atlantis when the shield was up freaked John out just a little. The air wasn't calm, but nor was it a true breeze. The humidity was moderate--but not as high as it could've been considering the location of the city. The temperature bothered John the most, though. He liked the way days hot when the sun was high and chilly in the middle of the night—but the shield kept the city fairly climate-controlled. Tonight, just like every other night with the shield, Atlantis's weather forecast was perfect.

Rodney explained it once--something about the way the Ancients had programmed the shield to allow enough air particle flow to keep the environment safe and not terribly unpleasant, but still function to protect against pretty much every type of warfare. They were safe from bombs and poisons, germs and natural disasters...and as a bonus, they got near-perfect weather. They wouldn’t even get sunburns, because the shield had a UV filter.

John was in hell. He curled up on the balcony, using the blanket to buffer his naked skin against the city's hard surface. Power bars weren't that great, but the sawdust texture and stale-poptart flavor were strangely comforting. He chewed on the first one until his jaw ached and then reached for another, letting empty wrappers fall where they may. The sound of his teeth fighting the power bar was the only thing he could hear. Everyone else was safely inside, huddled against each other like doing so would keep away all the bogeymen lurking outside. John was outside, and he thought maybe there was some kind of significance there.

And he couldn't believe they were thinking about burning bodies on a pier. It sounded like some sort of nineteenth century battlefield story, one from the good old days. Then again, they were thinking about just letting all the Genii go without punishment--other than having to cart their dead home with them.

Their major problems were sorting themselves out; they were somewhat safe again and not in immediate danger from Wraith or Genii or their own people. John knew he should be grateful, but he wasn't. Every time he closed his eyes, John saw a full-color replay of the worst night of his life since Afghanistan. It made shooting Sumner look like child's play. The part that was eating at John, though, was that it wasn't all the killing and blood from the invasion, or the fury of the storm.

It was what he'd done after, when the fighting was over and the hurricanes gone. He'd done something he'd swore he’d never do, and done it to a man he counted as a good acquaintance if not a close friend. Why was it that he could hold himself together and do the right thing when a city's existence was in the balance but couldn't manage simple comfort? Carson had needed comfort, nothing more. The good doctor didn't have a killer's constitution, unlike John, but even if he had, the first time you took a life, it did something to you. John had taken that understanding and twisted it into his own mindless satisfaction.

Maybe it was the city itself, this mechanical creature that whispered to John alone. He could almost feel it sometimes, vivid but not alive. No matter how well programmed, the structure didn't have a soul and couldn't possibly understand the needs of one. John thought he did, at least until he'd turned a man into a tool for his own pleasure.

John stared up at what should've been a cloudy night sky and wondered if there would be any of himself left in his body when they finally got back to Earth.

•••

Rodney stared at the data on his computer, pondering whether he was hallucinating or if Kavanagh had managed to fuck up another simple assignment. All he was supposed to do was map the current fluctuations between the lightning rods and the shield generator. That was it--transfer some numbers, do a couple of transformations, and click a few boxes in the analysis program. Voila, a nice chart and set of numbers deposited on Rodney's computer.

But no! This crap had Rodney's eyes aching. There was no way they were missing enough power to keep the shield running for six months--it just didn't work that way. They knew the impedance of the circuitry, they knew the limitations of the entire system and where power was shunted this way and that for various necessary functions and this was wrong.

"Kavanagh?" Rodney called out, not bothering to look away from the train wreck of data on his computer, "Get over here and try to convince me you're not an idiot. NOW."

"What?" Kavanagh muttered as he came around the desk. "Oh, that. I ran those numbers five times, McKay. It's right. Fucked up and inexplicable, but right."

Rodney rolled his eyes, his mouth twisting into a snarl. "No, it's not right, Kavanagh. Power does not disappear into thin air. Need I remind you about certain laws of conservation?"

Kavanagh huffed, crossing his arms defensively. "Look, I even rechecked the raw data. That's what we have. I mean, what do we know about how this city uses power? Maybe it's--

"In the Bermuda Triangle? Having coffee with Amelia Earhart? Playing cards with Jimmy Hoffa?" Rodney snarked, dismissing Kavanagh. "Zelenka? I have a project for you."

Dr. Zelenka looked at Rodney over his glasses, which had slipped down his nose. "If you are referring to devilish readings from storm, I think not. Kavanagh did calculations correctly. And, I am extremely busy attempting to discern what new systems we found are designed to do."

"He didn't do them right, and what new systems? I thought you said the extra power just temporarily activated the systems we'd shut down for conservation," Rodney replied, pushing away from his desk to join Zelenka. "You didn't say they were new systems."

"That is because when you asked, I had no idea they were new systems," Zelenka said patiently. "But look at this," He continued, pointing to a display.

Rodney studied it, frowning. "Where did we get the power to have that on?" He asked. "We still have cold water only, and you're using a holographic display?"

"Is not running off matrix generators," Zelenka countered, "And is only one running right now. I am using to backtrace power source. The lack of drain on our primary power source when I accidentally turned it on earlier is how I found out about new systems."

"Let me see these systems," Rodney demanded, already forgetting about reprimanding Kavanagh's apparent incompetence. "That doesn't make any sense," He muttered, pointing at a small marker on the display. "We've never activated those portions of the city. Why are their environmental controls primed?"

Zelenka reached over and turned them off. "Better?" He asked dryly, smirking. Rodney was about to retort when Kavanagh stormed over.

"Whatever the fuck you two just did, stop it," He growled, shaking a pad of paper at them. "All the power readings just went funny."

"Went funny?" Rodney said disbelievingly. "What kind of funny?"

"They spiked. I was about to replay the records when the current ones just...jumped. And not the ones from the matrix generators...the ones from the lightning rod system," Kavanagh replied. "Which doesn't make any sense; there's no lightning..."

As one, Rodney, Zelenka and Kavanagh turned to the display. "It's stored somewhere," Rodney said softly, hands flitting over the display to draw the zoom back and look at the city as a whole. "We were assuming that the lightning rod system was inherently inefficient, shunting off excess power safely while using a little to power the shield."

"Where would the Ancients stick a storage system?" Kavanagh asked, eyes searching the display for clues. "There, in the sublevels. There's no reason for those systems to be active."

Rodney focused on a radiating system of long, narrow bands that lined a very remote level of the city's sub-basements. The environment down there was, according to the few scouting reports they'd received, dank yet not dangerously murky. Now, though, it appeared that the city had cleaned things up a bit; low-level lighting was active, as was basic air circulation and conditioning. He tapped on one of the narrow bands and a diagram appeared. "Zelenka?"

Radek pushed his glasses back up. "This circuit is connected to this one," He murmured, tracing upwards, "Which goes up to shield generator. This one goes into main power system."

"It stored the power," Kavanagh said disbelievingly. "McKay, try turning on something big. See what it does."

Rodney wasn't about to pass up on a chance to do some old-fashioned trial-and-error. He briefly considered their options--they needed to test out the idea on something with enough of a power drain to make a difference in what looked like a storage system, but not enough to compromise the shields if they were wrong. "Turn on the environmental controls in all the labs," He said to Zelenka. "That should be enough to see any change."

Zelenka did as requested and the three men watched carefully while fresh, cool air flowed into their lab. "Look!" Kavanagh said, pointing. "Rodney, are you getting this down?"

"Yes, yes, the drain on that system is roughly equivalent to the power required to run the air conditioning in the labs," Rodney replied. "The balance is being pulled from the matrix generators, and the shield isn't being compromised."

The entire lab had, by this point, gathered around the display. "Does this mean we can take hot showers again?" One assistant asked timidly but hopefully.

Rodney smirked. "Maybe; it depends on just how much power we have stored down there. It's going to take Kavanagh and Zelenka hours to figure that out. In the meantime, we're not going to use any more of it," He stated, turning off the air conditioning again.

"Why not?" Kavanagh asked shortly. "It wouldn't kill us to live with a little comfort."

Rodney's smirk twisted a little. "Because there might, and I must stress here the small probability to which I am referring, might be enough power to open a 'gate back to Earth. On the basis of that admittedly miniscule chance, we can't risk using up this stored power for hot water and cool air."

At that point, everyone stared at Rodney like he was either the smartest man on the planet, or the craziest.