Neal looks down again, for a half-second, then forces himself to meet Malcolm's eyes again. This is good. It's a good thing. Don't deny it. "It isn't that, necessarily."

He frowns, rubbing his temple while he tries to put his aching skull to thinking about what he remembers. "But there was..."

His skin crawls as he remembers the last place, the only other place he felt that slipping control before. In that psychiatrist's office almost three years ago, when she drugged him. The only difference is, this felt good. Better than good.

"I was on a walk, and I heard music," he says, the words almost experimental. "Not like what was happening before, real music, and the people around me heard it too. It..."

He trails off again. He doesn't want to tell them how good it felt to let go. To stop thinking. To stop caring about anything but that moment of feeling good, and then the next, and the next. Neal leans forward and rubs his face with both hands.

"I don't know, maybe it was just a really good concert or something."