The cup went over at 08:07.
Todd Hannigan was already down beside it when the door opened, one hand flat on the floor and the other going for paper towels that were not where paper towels lived. There was coffee on his cuff. There was coffee on the floor. The tiny staff kitchenette was not built to hold a man of his size kneeling in it.
"Before anyone says anything,"
he said,
"this wasn't me."
Ian Langsford did not move his mug.
"I watched him do it."
"You could've helped."
"I did. I moved my shoes."
The door stayed open, and Todd looked up along the new coat in the doorway and understood, too late, that the first thing this clinic had decided to show the new coordinator was him on the floor with a paper towel in his fist.
"New coordinator,"
Mireau said from the counter, in the voice of a man reading a chart.
"And this is the new clinic coordinator,"
Cabot said, from somewhere above Todd's shoulder.
"You will treat her with the same professional respect you extend to every member of this staff."
Todd got up. His knees objected. The floor was still wet, so he wiped his hand on his scrubs before he offered it to her, and then he left it out there and waited to see whether she would take it or tell him to go and find a mop.