It’s not the dreams, anymore. He’s learning to handle those. He’s been learning to live without an abundance of sleep, to take caffeine when he needs it.

His senses are as sharp as ever. So is his mind. The problem does not stem from himself. Or, perhaps, it does.

He knows this: he cannot handle the harsh lighting in stores.

Grocery stores are far too well lit, and Trilby is a creature of the dark. His thieves’ instincts crave the shadows left by a broken light, so he can blend in, be silent.

Light is not reassuring. He has learned that, as dreaming during the day scares him more than it does at night. His encounters with the supernatural were not restricted to the dark, and the light only makes it clear of exactly what he is facing.

Trilby shakes his head. He is dwelling too much on certain subjects, and there is work to be done before he can leave.

He is used to completing unpleasant tasks in unpleasant places. This is much easier than some of what he’s done.

Again he shakes off the thoughts and examines the bread. So many brands...he’s not used to choosing like this. Grocery shopping is not something he’s used to.

When he ordered in, it was simply a general pack of food. The basics. Trilby does not eat expensively. He knows the expensive foods, and he has a sense of class, but simple fare is what carries him through his days.

But somehow...this feels mundane. Boring. And the lights are too bright.

If there is anything Trilby lives (lived?) for, it was/is excitement. Even now, when excitement means terror, he still craves it. Perhaps that’s why he continues to work for the Ministry.

Perhaps.

Trilby selects a loaf of bread that looks fresher than the others and moves along, selecting food, following a mental shopping list. The store is well-sized, and he often feels as if he were at the heart of some great lair. For a moment he thinks of the proverbial dragon, hoarding the food in neat rows, and then he shakes the thought off again.

It does not do to get lost in thought while shopping. He should reserve that for home, for the flat, when he has time to do nothing but think and write.

He focuses, and clears his mind. It is a trick he has learned for thievery, and now proves useful for other things.

Bread, mayo, butter...it seems he’s got everything. He heads for the checkout counter.

The cashier is a young, perky thing, and she smiles at him as soon as he begins to unload his basket.

“How are you today?” The dreaded question. He was hoping for a quiet cashier, for no conversation. The lights are still too bright, and he can see her clearly. She’s honestly cheerful. Must not have been at this job for too long, he thinks.

“I’m well enough, thank you.” He says, smiling thinly. Her smile grows wider. “Great!”

Fortunately, she doesn’t try for more conversation, and what chatter she does dispense he can deal with a simple yes or no.

He pays for the food, and carries it out. The sky is still blue, and he isn’t far from home.

Mission accomplished.

(When he is alone, at a desk, he will write nothing of this. He will mark the day down as I have gone out of my way to do as the Ministry’s therapist asked. I don’t need to do it again.)