Indy thought he knew the look of the guy who sat down across from him. It was a common enough one around here, that impression people gave you of moving purely mechanically while they grappled with whatever was on their minds--usually nothing good. Not noticing who was around you was another typical symptom. Not that Indy could blame him; he'd done the same thing more than once himself.

He had been waiting for someone, or actually any one or more of a group of someones, but none of them was here yet, and he could wait to check in personally with them as long as he saw them all this shift. Indy shrugged and took a forkful of toast. "No, it's fine," he said to the guy (mid-twenties, blond, injured arm, probably Indy's height or a little shorter standing. The accent had sounded American, but who knew these days, especially if the translation had kicked in again).

They could've just eaten their meals in silence--evidently they both had a lot on their minds--but that always meant a hassle with the nurse later and it wasn't in Indy's nature not to try to gather information where he could. Besides, he wanted to say something. Talking didn't usually help Indy when he was having a lousy morning, but he didn't mind giving it a shot if someone else got something out of it. Ultimately he settled on asking, "Rough night?" with the intentionally sympathetic air of someone who's been through plenty of them.