His musings carried him to the end of the concourse with his new voucher for the earlier flight. Limping the last bit, he threw himself down into an uncomfortable chair. He knew he was tired because out of the corner eye, he was sure he saw someone just there. It happened from time to time. His neurologist said it was his brain compensating for the damage from the accident, no need for alarm. His psychiatrist said he just needed to remind himself it wasn’t real; it would pass. Aunt Moony told him to breathe in for five beats then out for six, and to imagine healing magic flowing through him. Then she would give him sugar-free vegan biscuits. They were awful, but he ate them; her baking was only slightly better than her cooking, and she was a terrible cook. She made an effort for him, and he would make it for her. Besides, he knew where Uncle Wendy kept his secret stash of Tim Tams. 