INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – AFTERNOON

The room is quiet.

Afternoon light slants across the floor.

Link lies back in bed, eyes closed.
Not asleep. Just still.
The door opens softly.

Teddy Altman steps out of the room, tablet in hand — calm, professional.

She nearly collides with Jo, who’s returning with a cup of coffee. They stop just outside the door.

JO
(low, careful)
How is he?

TEDDY
Physically? 
Wound healing just as it should.

A beat.

TEDDY
Emotionally… you tell me.

JO
Hard to say.
He’s… closed off.

TEDDY
That tracks.

JO
How long until he’s back on his feet?

Teddy considers her answer carefully.

TEDDY
Longer than he wants.
Shorter than it feels.

Jo exhales, tight.

JO
He won’t really let me in anymore.
I don’t know how long he’s going to last in here.

Teddy’s gaze flicks  briefly toward Link.

TEDDY
He’s a surgeon.
He knows how long recovery takes.

JO
Yeah.
But he’s also stubborn.

A faint, knowing smile passes between them.

TEDDY
I know you want to help him.
But, in there, you’re not his doctor.
You’re his wife.

That line matters. It lands.

JO
I know.

TEDDY
And that makes this harder for him than he’ll admit.

They share a quiet look.

Neither of them realizes he can hear every word.
Teddy gives Jo’s arm a gentle squeeze.

TEDDY
I’ll check back later.

She steps away down the hall.
Jo turns back toward the room — pauses just outside.

Inside the room, Link’s eyes are open now.
His jaw tightens.
He shifts slightly, then reaches — carefully — for the water pitcher on the tray with his free hand.

His movements are stiff — precise to the point of strain.
He lifts the pitcher, tries to pour.
The angle is off.
Water sloshes — then spills everywhere. Glass tips on its side.

Across the tray.
The sheets.
The tablet.

LINK
(frustrated, sharp)
Damn it!

He slams his hand lightly against the mattress — pain flares, but he barely reacts.

Jo hears it immediately.

She pushes the door open.

JO
Link—

She stops when she sees the mess.
Nothing serious.
Just water everywhere.
The glass tipped on its side.

Link doesn’t look at her.

LINK
I had it.

Not yelling.
But tight. Controlled. Pressurized.

JO
Let me—

She takes the water pitcher and pours him water. 

LINK
I can’t even pour a glass of water.

JO
It’s okay.
I’ll clean it up. 

She grabs towels behind and dries the tablet and the rest. 

JO
I’m going to grab you a dry sheet.

LINK
No no, it’s just water.

JO
The whole bed’s wet. I’ll be right back.
 
She hesitates — senses the moment — then steps out briefly.

Link stares at the glass.
At his hand.
At the wet sheets.
His frustration doesn’t explode.
It compresses — heavier, tighter — with nowhere to go.

FADE OUT.