Carter appears out of nowhere and gives Abby the lowdown on the diarrhea patient she fobbed off on him. Panicked, Abby realizes that Paris and child are visible from there, and she then spies Sobriki being wheeled down the hallway, so she steers Carter toward a room so that his back is facing the hallway. Abby proceeds to ask him some weak questions about a tot with abdominal pain. As she blathers on to keep him distracted, though, Sobriki starts chatting quietly to his child. Carter hears this. His eyes glaze as he processes that voice, and his body visibly tenses. He stares hard at Abby, willing her to prove him wrong even though he already knows who's behind him. Fear, anger, hurt, disbelief, and a hint of betrayal wash over his face in a split second, and the guilty expression on Abby's face gives away the game. Slowly, he turns and peeks around the corner. His slowly reddening eyes lock on Sobriki's frame. "They put you in restraints," Paris notes. "It's just a precaution," Sobriki says soothingly. "They're a little paranoid." Paris spots Carter and is visibly concerned; Sobriki turns and the two men finally make eye contact. "Oh, it's you," Sobriki says. "I'm sorry." He seems lightly remorseful, as though he hasn't considered the full emotional impact on Carter of his homicidal schizophrenic episode, or as if he'd just pricked him with a toothpick. Sobriki acts more concerned about proving he's better, as if that will magically heal the inner scars on Carter's soul and erase the memory Carter's own struggles. Carter has barely blinked once. "What are you doing here?" Carter breathes. Paris shares that her hubby slipped and fell outside his office building; the latter two words gut Carter, who hadn't heard about the conditional release. "You're out," he spits, hatred and resentment in his eyes. "I'm sorry," Sobriki pleads, more earnest now. "That wasn't me who did that to you, to your friend. You know that, right? You're a doctor. You know it's a disease." Carter's neck vein throbs. "I'm being treated," persists Sobriki. "I'm okay now." Carter swallows hard, sickened, struggling against tears, or an outburst, or his primal urge to lash out at his former tormentor. "Great," he chokes. "Glad you're okay." He whirls around and leaves.
As Carter heads for the restroom, strains of "Battleflag" by Lo-Fidelity All-Stars plays -- the same song that played over the scene in which Sobriki committed the stabbings. Carter bursts into the bathroom and grabs the sink, leaning heavily on it and trying to collect his thoughts. He's clearly rattled that this troubled man, this schizophrenic killer, so casually asserts his complete normalcy when Carter -- the innocent victim -- struggled for so long and still can't say that he's completely recovered. And won't ever be able to say it, either, because his painkiller addiction will haunt him for the rest of his life. Noah Wyle manages to convey all this with simple facial expressions, and it's the best and most subtle performance he's given in a long time. As the music crescendos, Carter whips around, paranoid that the demon is behind him. Exhaling shakily, he splashes water on his face. But he hasn't completely regained equilibrium, and pukes violently into the sink. Yes, in searching for words, for a way to cope, for an expression of his every emotion at this second, Carter plumbs the depths of his soul and comes up with his breakfast. We go to commercial wondering what Carter ate.