Now and again we look for isolation—closing ways to our rooms, shutting ourselves off, stowing away under covers or behind books. Yet, at times that feeling of depression comes uninvited. We long to see an amicable face. To hear a kind word. To go through valuable minutes with another person, regardless of the possibility that whatever we do is sit in amicable quiet. We are social animals. We require group. Also, when we don't discover it, it can feel just as we've been surrendered. Overlooked. Neglected.
In any case, we've never known the dejection of Mark Watney.
Mark awakens in the red tidy and feels a yelling torment in his side. A metal bar sticks from his gut like a little spear. "Cautioning," a mechanized voice trills in his protective cap, "Oxygen level basic." He shakes away the mists in his mind and recalls … a tempest. They were getting away from a tempest—production for the launcher. A bit of flotsam and jetsam struck. Dimness.
Mark hauls the metal pole out of his gut, covers the injury with his hand and stumbles back to the base, his breath shallow and froze. The entryway opens, closes, seals. Imprint can inhale once more.
The injury. He rips off his defensive suit, removes his shirt and performs a touch of excruciating self-surgery, stapling his skin together to staunch the stream of blood.
Mark has oxygen. Water. Nourishment. He will survive the day, in all likelihood. Tomorrow, as well.
Be that as it may, he is totally alone on this cool, dead shake we people call Mars. His associates and companions are gone, abandoning him for dead as they fly home in a boat bearing one vacant seat. Nobody knows he's alive. What's more, regardless of the possibility that they did, it would take months—no—prior years anybody could get to him. The sustenance won't keep going that long, regardless of the fact that the water and air do.
Mark hasn't surrendered trust. However, in the event that he wants to survive sufficiently long to be protected, he'll need to do only it.
In any case, we've never known the dejection of Mark Watney.
Mark awakens in the red tidy and feels a yelling torment in his side. A metal bar sticks from his gut like a little spear. "Cautioning," a mechanized voice trills in his protective cap, "Oxygen level basic." He shakes away the mists in his mind and recalls … a tempest. They were getting away from a tempest—production for the launcher. A bit of flotsam and jetsam struck. Dimness.
Mark hauls the metal pole out of his gut, covers the injury with his hand and stumbles back to the base, his breath shallow and froze. The entryway opens, closes, seals. Imprint can inhale once more.
The injury. He rips off his defensive suit, removes his shirt and performs a touch of excruciating self-surgery, stapling his skin together to staunch the stream of blood.
Mark has oxygen. Water. Nourishment. He will survive the day, in all likelihood. Tomorrow, as well.
Be that as it may, he is totally alone on this cool, dead shake we people call Mars. His associates and companions are gone, abandoning him for dead as they fly home in a boat bearing one vacant seat. Nobody knows he's alive. What's more, regardless of the possibility that they did, it would take months—no—prior years anybody could get to him. The sustenance won't keep going that long, regardless of the fact that the water and air do.
Mark hasn't surrendered trust. However, in the event that he wants to survive sufficiently long to be protected, he'll need to do only it.
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