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Spencer takes another swig of coffee. He can practically feel the warm liquid running into his stomach, and it’s less comforting than usual. It feels sloshy, almost sickening. The sensation of not-quite-rightness is back, and now it’s amplified. Spencer wonders vaguely if he’s coming down with something, but he doesn’t feel ill. He has a mild headache, but that’s normal considering the cloudy weather and his usual insomnia. Conditions are rife for a migraine, but the usual vision-stealing aura doesn’t seem to be approaching. Spencer’s stomach feels fine, but he has no appetite, apparently not even for coffee. He doesn’t feel feverish, but he has a desire to curl in on himself and pull his wool sweater tightly around his body. He doesn’t feel good. Not in the sense that he necessarily feels sick. Just that the needle on the meter of his physical well-being is stuck in neutral; it hasn’t ticked up into the green zone of good.

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