He knows what it's like to be scared of your own mind.

He lives it in the flesh and every time he can’t quite get a grasp on something — a passage, information on a case, anything — he thinks it's the start of a slow descent into a madness that lies dormant.

And he sits there in the bed of your clinic, you've taken him through his analysis and scans, nothing. Even if he's rubbing his eyes with his palms, irritated and confused and his head throbs, the images blur.

You suggested that it might be psychosomatic, it would make sense — even when your patient wasn’t having it.

"No. I — I know what mental illness looks like and this is not it. I have extreme sensibility to lights because there’s something wrong with me physically, not mentally." Spencer lashes out with a trembling hand to his face, getting up the hospital bed and picking up his suitcase, no matter how loud his voice booms in his head, echoing back at him.