The quill paused, scratching across the page, as Gabe glanced up at Spencer; the sympathy was no less real for how fleeting the look was before he resumed writing. He made a couple of quick notes, saying as he did, "Most of the draughts during the war were aimed at repression of waking memories. I think we can get you something more effective."
He set down the quill and moved away down the bench a little, pulling a couple of small jars off the shelves and breaking a sprig off a bundle of dried plants hanging from a hook in the ceiling. His hand hovered over a battered biscuit tin on the bench. "Are you having any trouble waking up from them?"