“My mother drinks to cope,” Malcolm told him matter-of-factly. “When my father was arrested, she hit the bottle hard and she’s never really pulled herself out of it. A 9am scotch, some pills in the evening, a drink in her hand most hours between.” He glanced over. “I’d like to say I prefer both of you sober, but I don’t remember the last time I saw her without a single drink in her.”

He looked at Doc. “You don’t have to talk about it, but you can. And you don’t have to give up the protective mantle of being ‘fine’ - I use it, too - but you can. You’ve helped me a lot. Immeasurably. And if I can help you, too...I’d like to.” He gave him a cheeky little smile. “I’d never tell anyone you had a feeling. I promise.”