You can tell a lot about a man by going through his stuff, but Doc doesn't have much stuff to go through. Everything he has is borrowed, or acquired here, but not really his to call his own. Some clothes with a preference for more fitting trousers, a curated selection of library books about various topics spanning across the history of modern medicine, illustrated guides around boat construction, and hidden towards the bottom a few texts on post traumatic stress and parenting tips. Closer to the bed there are a couple of shirts in a heap probably designated as laundry, more empty bottles than anyone without a drinking problem should rightfully have, and a folded pillowcase draped over a bedside table lamp.

"I was across the road," he explains as he plucks the note from Malcolm's grasp and stuffs it into his back pocket. "I will put one there later. Let's take a look at your hand."

Doc gestures to the bed where Malcolm can sit on the edge, unzipping the duffel bag he'd salvaged from one of the Phillips Drive houses on his first few days here and retrieving the first aid kit.

"I was not hiding anything," he points out once they are both seated on the bed, though he doesn't quite make eye contact as he sets his hat aside and flips the lid on the first aid kit open.

"It-- occurred to me to leave a note. Should I not return one day." They had all just been whisked away for two days. The possibility of an indefinite trip next time is there, hanging unsaid in the tense air between them.