“That’s not really what I said,” Malcolm told him. “I think you’re perfectly capable of looking after yourself in a fight. Against monsters or... whatnot. A fight is where you’re comfortable living. Lots of soldiers go to war and do well and they think they’re fighting to get home. Then they get home and they don’t remember how to live without a fight to survive. While I think you’ve been self-medicating your PTSD for quite some time, I also think there are people or a person around you at home who reminds you what the fight is for.”

Malcolm took a sip of coffee.

“A family of some kind. Your actual family or one you built.”