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She's been working too hard.
She tells herself that's what it is, that's why she finds herself on the freezing cold balcony outside resus an hour after her shift ends.
It's one of the many places Claire Browne goes to hide when the walls are breaking down.
"...Most healthy adults need between 7 to 9 hours of sleep per night to function at their best..."
She knows the patient care off by heart, and she also knows she gets nowhere near that number.
And she knows she is not at her best.
The surgery was a disaster. Teenage girl, fifteen, a promising basketballer. Too much blood loss, massive coronary episode, and that's it. A young life snuffed out with everything still to come. Devastated parents, little sister, older brother hiding his tears behind his shaking hands.
And Claire has to be the one to tell them, she always does, always has to be the good little resident carrying the reaper's scythe. Has to say she's sorry, there was nothing they could do, and watch the result of her failure crest like a wave that drowns her whole.
"...The quality of your sleep directly affects your mental and physical health and the quality of your waking life, including your productivity and emotional balance..."
She tells herself she's overtired, when it's been thirty minutes and she still can't seem to stop herself from crying. She's hanging over the handrail, staring into the gloom, and wondering not for the first time what her life, what any of this is for.
And the sky burns orange in the low winter sun.
"Hey," he says, right out of the silence, and Claire starts. She looks at him, not bothering to pretend she's not been crying, not when she can't, and when he's already seen it a dozen times before. She stares at him blankly, takes in the gentle sympathy in his familiar face.
"Dr Lim send you?" she asks distantly. Pretends that that's a real question, when she knows already that by now, he comes after her because he cares and not because someone up the chain has made him. He cocks his head, eyes fixed on hers, and she sighs as she relents.
He comes to stand next to her, close enough for the warmth of his forearm to creep through her coat sleeve.
She shivers.
"When I was a resident, I used to watch golf," he says. Conversationally, like the statement makes any sense just hanging there in the air between them. She looks at him with a frown of mingled surprise and confusion. He chuckles at her expression.
"Whenever I lost someone on the table," he clarifies, studying his clasped hands as he leans on the handrail. "I took myself off to the break room and watched a stack of old golf tapes until I got over it. Or until it was time to go back on shift."
"Oh," she says, wondering where this is going. "I didn't know you liked golf."
"I don't," he says. "It's boring. Pointless."
He half-smiles at her sceptical expression.
"I'm not sure where the wisdom is in this story," she says, and vaguely notices that at some point she's turned her body away from the darkened horizon and into his, like new leaves seeking out the light.
"Point is, everyone has a thing," he says. "Some people watch golf. Andrews hits a treadmill til his shoes wear out. Park goes to the theatre and watches bad cop movies. Shaun what, recites a medical dictionary backwards?"
She smiles a bit, and when she meets his eyes she can feel the involuntary race of a traitorous heart stirring back into life.
"And you, you come up here and blame yourself," he says, still looking at her. She sighs.
"Will it ever stop feeling like my fault?" she asks. He gives a shrug as he considers her question.
"Yeah," he says. "I haven't had to tape the golf in years."
"That's because it's not 1992 any more, and no-one has a VCR," she replies, and he shoots her an offended look.
"Is that how old you think I am?" he says, but a wry smile passes between them.
They're quiet for a moment, before she glances up at him.
"I know it's not my fault. But I always, always feel like I've failed them. And I don't know how to get over that."
"Honestly, I'd be more worried about you if you didn't feel that way," he says. "And I'm not worried about you, Claire. You've got this. It's just sometimes it sucks in this job. Life is hard and people die."
"This isn't much of a pep talk," she says, but despite her words she can feel her tired and beaten down spirit start to pick itself back up, and she knows he knows it.
He smiles at her properly then, and she wonders whether he also knows what it does to her when he looks at her like that.
She thinks he probably does.
"Come on," he says, and jangles his keys in his pocket. "I'll drive you home."
It's not an offer that's ever been there before, but she doesn't stop to question it.
If it's a step outside the bounds of duty for him to open the car door for her and for her to get inside and lean her elbow on the door so she can watch his face in profile as he drives, neither of them acknowledges it.
And if he knows the exact route from the hospital to her apartment without asking a single question, they both ignore the implications.
Life is hard, she thinks. But people are good, and the feel of his arms around her shoulders when he pulls her into an impulsive embrace just before she goes inside makes her think that the way forward might not be as dark as she thought.