[ The music isn't playing any more. There's only silence. His phone is dead. He pulls one headphone as he sits up in the snow, staring with wide eyes. It's July. And freezing. And he already knows if he doesn't get moving, that cold will get him. He's seen plenty brought in over the years with frostbite, chilblains, hypothermia. The cold doesn't discriminate. And there's little his scrubs, hoodie and pants will do against it.

He doesn't know what this is; if maybe he's— no. He's fine. He's okay.

He needs shelter. Warmth. He needs to get moving. He pulls his hoodie sleeves down, exhales hard as if to steady himself and looks to try and find a direction to head in. He's fine. He's okay. And there's smoke in the distance. Okay. So he starts walking, heading that way. His voice lifts, calling out into the woods. ]

Anyone out there?

[ He busies himself with helping the old man out with any medical problems. It's something to keep him occupied, some renewed rush of adrenaline when he thought he's already long tapped out after the day's shift. When there's nothing for him left to do (which is in of itself, a strange notion) and the Feast draws to a noisy yet uneventful lull, the allows himself a breath and moves to some quiet, unoccupied corner out of the way of eyes and ears.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he groans and presses his forehead against the wall. It feels real, against his skin. Solid. It feels real. It isn't the first time today, but when he exhales — a strange sound escapes him. Laughter. Disbelief. Catching something sharp and rough like a sob. Fuck, maybe this is it. He's cracked. It's hit him again. No bodies in Pedes, no painted animals on the walls. Everything bubbling up from under the surface.

And he's laughing. ]

[ Something's wrong with the birds in this place. He'd seen the huddles of them around town when he's first arrived. Watching them all, as if they're all fish in a bowl. But nothing just stays that way, and soon enough — the birds start attacking. Attacking means injuries. Head injuries.

Robby takes a leaf out of Methuselah's book and sets up in the Community Hall. He's no use fighting birds, but he can pick up the pieces afterwards. There's comfort in routine. His smile is light-lipped, disarming. Genuine. A patient is still a patient, no matter the place. ]

Okay, let's get you sat down. [ Hands on, and insistent. But gentling guiding the other to sit down on the cot. His voice is easy-going, affable. ] I'm Doctor Robinavitch, people call me 'Doctor Robby' and we—

[ He drags out the 'we' then stops. He glances down at the supplies and sucks in a sharp breath. Not much. But he can make do. He's just amazed of the fact there's actually gloves left. But he keeps his tone light. ]

Are going to make the best with what we've got.