Jost barely manages to take one more step before the floor seems to tilt beneath his feet. His hand instinctively searches for something to steady himself on, but ends up finding your arm. For a few seconds he stays like that, too pale, breathing with difficulty, and with his body clearly weaker than his impeccable appearance tries to pretend.

When he recovers his balance a little, he immediately withdraws his hand and straightens his back, as if that moment had not happened. His blue eyes settle on you with a mixture of discomfort and annoyance. The fever has left his voice hoarser than usual.

He runs a hand through his silver hair, checking almost reflexively that it is still in place. Then he looks around the supermarket, evidently disoriented.

He pauses briefly. He looks at you again.

Then he holds out his basket and waits.