Elsewhere, Tracy comes through a set of doors just in time to hear a kid yelling in Spanish. She runs toward the sound and finds a whole passel of personnel working on a thrashing patient in Trauma Yellow. Susan, in a bloody yellow gown, breaks away from the pack and heads to the hall past Tracy, calling for someone named Tyrone. Tracy asks what the deal is, and Susan says the patient is a crack dealer who took five shots from an Uzi. Tracy gasps that the patient is just a kid, and Susan curtly confirms that he's thirteen. Tyrone enters to help hold Five Shots down while the doctors work on him. Haleh yells at Tracy to call Security. Tracy asks why and Haleh explains, "I think the other gang members may come and try to finish him off." See, she needs to have that explained to her both because it's her first day, and because this is our first episode and we, the viewers at home, haven't already seen a gang member get shot in his or her hospital bed eight billion times. Tracy hits the phone as Benton marches into the fray.
At the desk, Timmy hands Carol a chart and tells her to tell the surgeons that the victim of a motorcycle accident is coming in; the victim wasn't wearing a helmet. Carol saves time later by making her disgusted noises now. As she walks on, she passes Mark, who is standing in front of the desk in a sport jacket, tie, and chinos. Mark faux-casually over-explains that he's "going across the street" for a minute because he promised Jen he'd go to some appointment. Timmy's like, "Whatever, dude." Mark asks him to ask Susan to cover for him. Timmy seriously doesn't care. Mark leaves. As he walks out, Mark crosses through Chairs and glances around thoughtfully at all the evidence of human misery bustling around.
Cut to...exactly the kind of hoity-toity medical office you could have easily pictured after Jen opined that Mark would hate it. Mark steps off the elevator and walks past a woman in a fur coat, like, we got that it was fancy from the marble floor; give us a break already. The office is very orderly and well-appointed and staffed with attractive, polished people. It's a contrast with the County ER, GET IT?! Mark rolls up to the reception desk and says he has an appointment with Dr. Harris.
Some time later, Dr. Harris is pontificating at an uncomfortable-looking Mark -- something to the effect that people want to provide for their families, implying that if Mark wants to keep his family in the style to which they haven't become accustomed yet but probably should, Mark should ditch County and take up with Harris's practice. Harris leads Mark in to the glass-doored, weirdly '80s-looking but fancy office that's empty, waiting for the associate who will occupy it. See, Mark doesn't even have an office at County, RIGHT?! Harris starts outlining the associate's tasks as though Mark had already accepted the job: as the most junior doctor in the practice, Mark would have to be on call nights and weekends; his compensation would start at $120,000 per year plus bonuses. The medical group has condos in Jamaica and Aspen; however, Mark -- being a big, gangly doofus -- doesn't ski. Harris tells Mark that Morgenstern has told him that Mark is "the sharpest guy the ER has ever had." Geez, poor ER. Harris adds, "The ER is a young man's game. You think you're doing good, but there's a lot to life, especially this one. And we find the practice intellectually challenging, so we send our physicians to all the major conferences. Last year: Maui, Paris, Rome. We're proud to practice the best possible medicine we can here." "Sounds great," Mark sniffs, all superior because his job isn't cushy and shit. Harris comments on the schmancy décor. Mark smiles tightly. Harris checks his watch and asks whether Mark has time for lunch: "We can go to the Crown Club; they have a great porcini pasta -- no oil!" Mark says he has to get back to his squalid garret of a hospital. Harris calls for a receptionist to bring Mark his coat, and concludes by telling Mark that they'd "really love to have" him. Mark thanks him. Shut up, Mark. As Harris ushers a well-dressed female patient down the hall, yammering about some museum benefit, Mark shrugs on his coat and shambles off, because he's meant to practise medicine for the people, not these rich jerks with all their pretty awesome-sounding perks. Mark, you are an idiot.