Thankfully, the rest of the evening and early hours of the next morning held no more dreams for him.  Disturbing or otherwise.  There were figures and scenery and animals (animals?) toying with the peripheral of his dream state, but nothing solid ever materialized.  Not like the unfolding scene involving Jemma and Charlette had done previously.  As far as dreams went, that was as close to HD-quality as you could get.  No Dolby surround-sound though.<br/><br/>For better or for worse, Paul mourned the fact that he’d never see Jemma again.  Unless, of course, someone had thrown her a life preserver.  Come to think of it, why didn’t he throw her one, or jump overboard to make sure she didn’t drown?  Even asleep, this lack of action bothered him until,<br/><br/>Ya driving me batty, Old Man!  That was a dream.  Jemma’s fine.  Now wake the hell up, already!<br/><br/>A slight stirring, and Paul instinctively stretched his legs and feet.  And who or what was playing with his hair and stroking his chin?  Might that be a puppy, having somehow managed to negotiate its way into a dream of its own?<br/><br/>You’re seriously killing me, Old Man!<br/><br/>Eyes opening in what appeared to be super slo-mo, Paul was now aware of a feeling of skin-on-skin.  And there was a smiling Charlette, cuddled against him with some of his hair entwined in her fingers.  Did she not have a room of her own?  “Hey you,” he sleepily whispered.  “Good morning.”<br/><br/>Also, so no puppy then. . . .