"You must really love that jumpsuit, Hank."

Hank didn't know the guy's name. He grinned back anyway, then sat in his chosen spot — far enough from the fire so he wouldn't roast, and not close to anyone. He was still new with this crew, and hadn't the knack for making friends.

The jumpsuit, he soon saw, had been a mistake. Almost everyone else had changed after their shift was over, some into comfort clothes, others into plaids and denim. One of Hank's jobs was laundry, though, and he hadn't seen the point of creating more work for himself. Ah, well; lesson learned.

Dinner would be hot dogs toasted on skewers, everyone responsible to cook their own. Hank had never done it before and ended up with badly scorched food. He didn't try to toast his bun, just added extra ketchup.

"Nobody, I mean nobody, puts ketchup on a hot dog," quipped one of the ladies. Stella he thought it was. But she was smiling when she said it, so he smiled back.

There were other foods, potato salad and chili on disposable dishes. Hank was a big man with a big appetite, so he indulged. The potato salad was quite good.

"Grew those potatoes ourselves," said one of the techs, maybe Mike? Aaron? Hank didn't remember.

"Very good," he said, and took some more.

The tech, whatever his name was, laughed. "That's sincere praise right there," he said, smiling.

Several of the others were toasting marshmallows, but Hank declined politely. Two of the ladies were trying to make s'mores, but the chocolate wouldn't cooperate. "There's always something," commented an engineer.

A short discussion followed about someone named Malcolm who had invented a gizmo to keep marshmallows from falling into the fire, but Hank wasn't listening. He'd eaten well, and was feeling drowsy from the warmth. When someone suggested coffee, he volunteered to go and fetch mugs. He figured moving would help him stay awake.

One of the guys had brought his guitar and was prevailed on to play. He wasn't bad. A few people sang along, but Hank just sat and listened.

There was a break in the music while coffee was being poured. A general debate arose about the flavor of decaf versus what one guy called "the real thing". That prompted an older man, Mackie, into a recollection about the time they'd run completely out.

"Three weeks to go, and we had nothing, no decaf, not even tea. A few packets of too-sweet hot cocoa, and that wouldn't last long. So we put together an emergency committee — a "tiger team", the Boss called it — to test substitutes..."

Mackie was a talented storyteller, and he soon had them all paying close attention as he described the various combinations they'd tried, and all the things that had gone wrong in the process.

"We finally ended up with a cocktail made from toasted breadcrumbs, juice from reconstituted mushrooms, and a few grains of cocoa powder. Add a pinch of salt, cream and sugar, serve it really hot, and it tasted..." he paused and sipped. "Mmm. Absolutely nothing like coffee." That brought a big laugh.

Then it was quiet for a while. The story had hit a little too close to home. Hank stared into the flames and tried to recapture that drowsy feeling. He was suddenly acutely aware again of being the New Guy, of not knowing anyone, a profound loneliness in the middle of a crowd of people. He sighed bitterly and scowled.

"Well, I suppose it's about that time," someone said after a while. "Day shift starts early."

That brought groans and complaints, but also a wave of general agreement. Hank stood and started collecting mugs, and the party started to break up. A couple of minutes later, it was only Hank and one other still there — Greg, he thought, but didn't ask.

"I hate it when these end," maybe-Greg said.

Hank grunted.

"It was a good idea to start doing this. I wonder if it'll catch on."

"Probably," Hank said. "I had fun." Somewhat to his surprise, but true anyway.

"Better than the real thing, in some ways. No bugs, no smoke in your eyes..."

Hank busied himself arranging the mugs. He didn't say anything.

"Yep." The other man sighed, then stood. "Oh, well. Until next Friday."

Then he flipped the switch. The holographic fire vanished and overhead lights came on, revealing the bland walls of the rec compartment, SCS Prometheus stenciled on one bulkhead.

Hank started the dishwasher.

"Next Friday," he said.