Inside the jar there’s only a single nug left, a rare strain called Sour Hound which I got from Joel. I break up the sticky bud with shaky fingers and put it in the grinder, twist it, then load up the vaporizer with the ground herb. It’s taking an age to heat up. I find myself staring at the red light, willing it to turn green. C’mon, c’mon. I feel the deep, sucking groundswell telling me there’s another one coming. The space is closing in around me. I’m having trouble breathing. For some reason I can feel the back of my neck more than anything else. My arms feel four times too long. I wonder if I’m going to throw up.

The light turns green and I inhale fast, pulling the vapour deep into my lungs.

I caught it in time. It’s five minutes or so later and I’m melting into the rug, my back against the sofa. From my shifted perspective the flashback seems inconsequential, not something that should hold any power over me. And yet at the time they grab you and don’t let go. They’re part of the condition I’ve been diagnosed with, Uncomplicated PTSD, and they seem more real than real itself. And what’s so scary is the speed; it’s like a switch’s been flipped, changing the channel of your world. There’s no way of telling how long it’s going to last either. It could be seconds, it could be minutes. The worst episode happened mid-afternoon, just as I was leaving my therapist’s office; by the time the switch flipped back it was dark and I was halfway across town slumped behind a row of dumpsters with no memory of how I got there, a large scratch running down my left calf.

Now I’m just grateful the cannabis has worked, and I become fascinated with ripples on the water, visible through the large pane of glass running along the entire living area. They’re tinged with the street lights’ glow, and appear random at first, but if you really watch them you start to see there is a pattern; it’s just hard to work out exactly what it is. I get caught up in them for a while before realizing I’m settling in nicely, time relaxing its frantic grip as I slide into the everlasting present, and the thought of food is just emerging when my phone lights up the ceiling. The number on it is one I know well, the station. My old station. I don’t want to take it, but call it force of habit.

‘Yeah?’

‘Sir? It’s Arno Jansen. Heard you’ve turned into a vigilante.’