Malcolm scooped grounds into the press, his eyes on his shaky command of the spoon to get the grounds where they belonged.

“The worst of the withdrawal passed after about a week and a half,” he relayed with the matter of fact detachment of someone telling a story that happened to someone else. He looked up at Gil as he put the spoon down. “My symptoms have... good days and bad days. On good days I only feel amped and panicky. On bad days I argue or fight with people who aren’t here and break things. All the other days fall somewhere in between. Doc tries to help. He harvests willowbark and dries it in their distillery across the street so I can put it in my tea. It’s a mild pain killer. Helps with the headaches and brainfuzz. I drink chamomile tea. They... take turns supervising my sleep.”