The buddy who never made it back, standing in a green-lit room

I'm walking through a house that keeps changing size, and he's there—not dead, just quiet—sitting on a folding chair in a kitchen that smells like diesel and old coffee. He doesn't look at me, just stares at a pot of something boiling over. I try to shout his name, but the sound comes out as smoke. That's all. Woke up with my jaw tight, like I'd been grinding it for hours.