“No!” Gus hissed. “No lights. He’s dreaming. He’s still asleep.” The old man tossed his own covers away and eased out of his much larger bed. The two security men watched as Gus lowered his eighty-four-year-old frame next to the small bed and took the creature’s hand. They all noticed that the cowboy-and-Indian pajamas that Matchstick wore were soaked through with the tiny being’s perspiration. “Hey, old boy, wake up,” Gus said as he gently patted Mahjtic’s small, long-fingered hand. “You’re having a doozy of a nightmare.”

Matchstick was shaking and his eyes were still focused on the far wall, or on something far beyond it that the men couldn’t see. Outside the shack’s thin walls the winter wind blew cold against the aged wood and made a moaning sound that didn’t add any comfort to the strange situation.

“Hey, big fella, now you come on and wake up. You’re scarin’ old Gus.”

Mahjtic blinked and then screamed once more. It was a piercing sound and something that Gus hadn’t heard since 2006. Mahjtic was terrified.

“Oh, shit,” the tallest of the security men said. “Should I get a call into Director Compton?” he asked Gus.

Gus ignored the question, instead placing an age-spotted hand against the soft green skin of the alien’s cheek. “Come on, old boy. Come back to Gus, I ain’t goin’ to let nothing get ya.”

Finally Mahjtic blinked. A large tear rolled from his right eye and soaked quickly into the yellow pajama top. He blinked again and then his eyes opened wide and settled on Gus’s craggy face.