The ER is always busy. The Pitt is worse. There's already been three deaths today. It's noon. His heart and lungs and head ache every second, every time he's reminded of all the loss that surrounds him daily.

He's trying to take a break, leaning against his work station, running his hands over his face. He can feel the eyes of one of the interns burning into his back, and he heaves a deep sigh, turning and propping himself up. The intern is Whitaker. He gives him bad news. Another patient has passed. And the next person who bothers him is Dr. Collins, who never lets him stew in his bad emotions and who always calls him out, which puts him in a worse mood.

The next few moments are an endless line of people who need his help, ("Could I have you look at this, Dr. Robby?") or patients who choose just now to be needy, ("Dr. Robby, are my labs back yet?") or an endless wave of complaints. And he swears to God that the next time someone asks him a question, he's losing it.

And then he hears his name, and without thinking, he whips around and snaps, "What?" in a tone so mean that he didn't even know he had it in him.