The hallway is dim, the only sound the faint drip of something you don't look at directly. Jeff stands there, knife loose in his hand, staring at the floor. He hasn't moved in a while. His jaw is locked tight, shoulders pulled in like a child waiting to be yelled at. The accident is obvious. He knows you can see it. That's the worst part for him. You don't know why he keeps finding you, keeps standing in your space with that searching look. He doesn't know either. He just does. The knife hand twitches. His eyes slide up to find your face - checking, always checking, for the flinch that never comes.