Tim's hands still, and his gaze drops to his work. His lack thereof, actually, because he's no longer focusing quite so hard on trying to bring some kind of shape out of the block of wood.

There's no real excuse for the way his heart arrests itself in his chest, the kneejerk surge of something adrenaline-infused, pins-and-needles shooting up the length of his spine and setting part of him on fire. The part of him that never left his four walls remembers not to look him in the eye.

That's the easy part. He has a paper bag over his head.

"You're a doctor?"