[Most days, here's where he'd drum up a quicker quip about the merits of showing off, or some offhand joke about getting to watch her work. Instead, there's an off-beat where he frowns at her narrowly and looks a hell of a lot like he wants to stick to his guns. And then the air is broken with a muffled whirring, some mechanical sound from inside the clinic that can only mean the good Doctor's gotten to work on the poor sap who'd stumbled in before them. Running out of time if he wants to be finished in the back before Hunt is through.

Crap. He hisses through his teeth and ducks over toward the back entrance, waving her along. Okay, extra pair of eyes. He stoops to address the lock on the back door, folding an old-fashioned pick out until it clicks open quietly. To catch her up—]

He keeps his files on paper—harder to leak, easier to dispose of. Real low-tech for a guy who specializes in cyborgs.

[The door clicks open quietly and he pushes it open to let her through into the dim-lit backspace. Ladies first.]

Look for anything that mentions patients recovering from any sort of neurological trauma.