The dragging of boxes scraping over dusty floor isn't enough to drown out the voice that cuts through to him, or the shock of it being someone he knows. It must be, if she used his name and -

Oh.

Tim halts his serial loop, looking at Bee uncertainly, the scowl locked on his face falling away. Fuck, and she's - crying. Why is she crying. He's not equipped for this, not when he's already on this tenuous edge and he's holding a dead man's things in a box in his hands and he didn't even mourn him properly the first time, he just threw out the goddamn camera and hoped that would be the last of it, and now he's standing in a hallway in Manhattan, staring at someone who looks just as gutted over something he can't see, and what is he supposed to do?

"Are you," he says, the words slow and unsure, "are you - okay?"

Is she okay. Does she look fucking okay.