A man in a heavy plaid jacket holds a withered, stitched-mouthed head against his own cheek in a stark black and white photograph, looking calmly out at the viewer.
This is the managed version. It gets up, it answers emails, it says the correct thing at the correct volume, and it has not frightened anybody in a long time.
The other one is still here. It has to be held. It has been held all day, every day, for years, and the holding is most of what the day actually is, though nobody thinks to ask about that part.
People say he seems so much better. He is. That is the honest answer and it is not the whole answer.