By the time the guy with the tattoos crashed into the tea tray table, Martha had managed to ditch the scrubs and even wash her hands thanks to the lovely if very pleasantly vague people at the front desk. She was therefore feeling slightly more herself, in the sense of being less uptight and more willing to adapt (outwith the disconcerting feelings of being here in the first place).

Apparently some people didn't adapt quite as well.

She had just finished a drink, and she was nearby, so she headed over to try to help the bloke up onto his feet. He sure as hell didn't smell drunk, for starters. "Are you all right?" she asked, surveying him for lacerations. "The glass didn't cut you or anything?"