The walk to the doctor's was painless, if a little damp from the previous rain. The visit was similarly uneventful, although Sefton's knee ended up sore from the reflex test being more difficult for him than the doctor's usual patients. By the end of the visit, the doctor had patted him on the head and gave him a gentle shove out the door before giving the verdict: Sefton had a cold. It wasn't particularly dangerous at the moment and all he needed were some antibiotics to knock it out of his system.

The news was relieving, but Sefton knew painfully well that any such diagnosis also came with the same warning: "Make sure to drink lots of fluids and get plenty of rest." The fact that the doctor insisted on giving Sefton a handshake before they left, along with the rest of the visit, left Sefton feeling increasingly guilty and powerless. The walk back to Neal's place was suffered in steadfast silence, at least where Sefton was concerned.

At the moment, all he really wanted to do was sleep... and, hopefully, forget.