Sawyer asks what Dr. Shepherd does, and he says over his shot, "I was a...chief of surgery." Sawyer looks at him and asks, not unkindly, "Was?" Yep. And then Sawyer decides it's better to humor the drunk and asks, "So we're in Hell, huh?" "Don't let the air conditioning fool you, son. You're in here too. You are suffering," Dr. Shepherd says to his new confidante. Sawyer's miserable look is all the confirmation the good doctor needs. He continues jovially, "But! Don't beat yourself up about it. It's fate. Some people are just supposed to suffer. That's why the Red Sox will never win the damn series." Sawyer looks over, and his expression says volumes, namely, Oh, Christ. As I weren't already torn up over the prospect of murdering my bete noir, now I've got to share a bottle with a Boston fan? Kill me now. Dr. Shepherd downs his drink, then says, "I have...a son. He's about your age. He's not like me. He does what's in his heart. He's a good man. Maybe a great one. And right now, he thinks that I hate him. He thinks that I feel betrayed by him. But what I really feel...is gratitude. And pride...because of what he did to me. What he did for me. It took more courage than I had. There's a pay phone over here. I could pick it up and I could call my son. I could tell him about all this. I could tell him that I love him. One simple phone call and I could fix everything." Sawyer wants to know, "Then why don't you?" Dr. Shepherd's reply is simple: "Because I am weak. This, uh, this business that you have. Will it ease your suffering?" "Yeah," says Sawyer reluctantly. "Then what are you doing here?" Dr. Shepherd shoots back, because it's always easier to address someone else's problems than it is your own. Sawyer says it's not that simple, and Dr. Shepherd insists, "Of course it is. Unless you wanna end up like me, of course it is." Sawyer continues to look miserable.