No, you're gonna sleep on the bed. Last thing we need is you waking up with a crick in your neck. You'll be cranky enough as it is.

[He knows her. Tomorrow, she'll probably be beating herself up about this. John could never be harder on Chyler than she is on herself.

To punctuate his point, he shoves Chyler by one shoulder and back onto the bed. He's a lightweight, but she's a feather. A seventeen-year-old girl.]

I'll take Rodney's bunk, he won't be back until tomorrow afternoon anyway.

And I'm not taking complaints.