Christmas crashes in on him like an unexpected guest. All along it was there in the calendar, disguising itself as dates among the other dates, and suddenly it is descending upon him, demanding attention. Logan feels ambushed, although now he can recognize it as the small unreachable itch in his skull, words that wouldn’t quite form into thoughts, shy children who were waiting for him to notice them. Only when Jules assembles their realistically fake Christmas tree (looking worn now, its LEDs blinking without conviction) does he register with some urgency that he must lift his head out of his case reports and go out to find presents for Jules and Tom. He senses a gust of annoyance but the feeling is brief as a dog’s bark. Pointless hiatus, meaningless exchange of gifts slips very quietly out of his mouth as he is crossing the driveway, but the wind rattles the hawthorn bush and he is back to feeling nothing again.

He drives himself into Brockenhurst to poke around in the shops. The problem with shopping on Anesthine is he can hold no ideas in his head. By the end of the High Street’s short and tasteful parade any small inspirations have blown away like that crisp packet skittering along the gutter, and he must make his way back again, this time tapping possibilities into his phone’s notepad. The owner of the tiny gallery says, Hello again, and he explains, Can’t make up my mind, when the truth is closer to, Can’t hold on to it, but he knows he mustn’t scare her, or himself. Mostly the drug is good, and allows him to focus. His work has become easier, for so long as there’s no emotion involved, his brain functions near-normally. Only when emotion is present do words and thoughts disappear as though flushed down a lavatory.

He sits in the award-winning teashop to consider his list, his forgetfulness; there must be emotion in this task, though he cannot detect it. The Anesthine can. He reads through the list again and again, but he might as well be reading the Cyrillic alphabet. When the young man comes over to clean his table, flourishing his cloth like a toreador, Logan engages him in his dilemma, shows him the list for Tom.

What do you think? For my son? He’s about the same age as you. Which one of these?

The young man reads through the list, makes a noise like sucking through a flattened straw.

Just give him money, he says, handing back the phone.

You’re sure? asks Logan.

Whipping a tea towel over his shoulder, where it rests like an epaulet, Money is always best, he says. Better than making a mistake. He can get what he wants.