11‘Vincent,’ said Myf Williams, peering from the laptop, ‘you look awful.’
Vince had struggled through Monday on autopilot and then had a reprise of the previous night’s terrors. He glanced at his reflection in the screen—pale, unshaven, face blank.
‘Just a touch of insomnia.’
She looked worried. ‘You haven’t been drinking?’
Vince shook his head. But I came very close last night.
‘Still on the meds?’
He nodded. Well, most of the time.
‘Meditating?’
‘Yep. Sort of.’
‘Not sliding again, are you?’
Vince shrugged. ‘What is this, Myf, twenty questions? Oh, shut up, Deefer!’ He ducked off camera to feed the howling dog.
He returned to find Dr Williams with raised eyebrows. ‘It’s my job to ask questions. My concern is your mental health. I know you are angry with the Board’s approach an
