The alderman, en route from x-ray back to the main area, blathers that if America's so rich, it should be able to provide basic health services to all its people. Weaver bonds with him over this. "We do what we can with limited resources," she says. "Everyone should come down here and see the war you're fighting," Bright insists. That's his way of saying, "Vote for me and you'll get all the meaningless sympathy I can offer!" I mean, which one's the whore here, Weaver or Bright? Right now it feels like they should each leave money on the other's dresser. Romano bursts in, and his schmooze-meter is turned up to eleven. "Don't tell me we couldn't find a private room for the alderman!" he booms. "Nice to see you again, sir. Robert Romano. I heard you were down here and I want to make sure that you bend over for me just once so that I can French-kiss your cheeks twice as well as Kerry did." Wow. Two's a party; three's a brothel. Weaver explains that they're waiting on test results, and Bright avers that he really doesn't want his own room. "This lets me experience the service my constituents get when they come in," he smiles. Romano chirps something about his being in good hands with Weaver, but then hisses to her privately, "Get him a room."

Bright watches Romano go, amused. "I was on the committee that hired that man," he sighs. Weaver calls him an excellent surgeon. "Tragic about his arm," Bright says casually. "Lots of people downtown wish it had been his head." Then damn the lot of them. Damn every last alderiffic one of 'em. Weaver reads Bright's x-ray and shares that his knee isn't broken, but that there is some pooled blood that needs to be drained. Jennifer gets panicky again, but Weaver swears it sounds worse than it is. Pause. Weaver looks at them both uncomfortably. She totally doesn't want to have to talk penis-talk with this man, but she knows it's got to come. Heh. I'm gross. Once she gets Jennifer out of the room, Weaver quietly broaches the subject of the syphilis sore. The alderman is startled that it's an STD. Dude, what did you think that giant open sore was? Chicken pox? "We'll need to report it to the health department," Weaver informs him. Peering up at her through eyes that are twinkling on cue, Bright asks if there's a chance she can keep the diagnosis off his medical record. "It's automatic once the labs come back, but don't worry -- your records are confidential," Weaver reminds him. Bright shakes his head, correcting that his become public every time there's an election. "Syphilis isn't a word voters love to hear," he sighs. Comprehension dawns on Weaver. "You don't think everyone deserves some privacy?" he wheedles. Think twice about that before running for office, then, eh?