Neela paces the chamber so hard, she wears a groove in the metal floor. By contrast, Weenie is reading. Looks like a nice bodice-ripper, too. The least he could do is offer it to Neela, the one who needs the kind of distraction that can only come from a hirsute, muscular giant of a Scottish landowner and his pliant, fiery servant girl with the milky bosom, eager mouth, and a name made up of vowels liberally sprinkled between unlikely consonants. "And as Lachlan rose above her lily-pale loins, he moaned, 'Oh, Gweyunaecthe....'" Weenie pulls himself away from The Laird of the Fuck-Swings long enough to sigh at the stupidity of it all -- temperatures go down, heaters get turned up, and families asphyxiate before they get a chance to read the scene where Lachlan delicately plucks Gweyunawcthe's virginity like a cherry from a tree. Neela doesn't want to talk. She has no time for words. They waste oxygen. Precious, precious oxygen. Bizarro Rex's machinery beeps, so they take him off the mask briefly to prevent an oversaturation of oxygen. Grateful, Bizarro Rex cures a woman's angina downstairs. His evil-doing alter ego is going to be so pissed. "I can hardly breathe," whines Neela. "How much longer?" She's got a hundred more minutes. Susan knocks on the window and shouts, "His name's Samuel!" Neela couldn't give a shit if she were pumped full of carbohydrates and laxatives. "How are you doing?" Susan asks. Neela tries to play chipper. "See you in a couple hours!" Susan calls out, leaving a miserable-looking Neela, who isn't being terribly helpful as Weenie fusses over little Samuel.
Elizabeth and Kerry confab about a patient we don't care about at all, just long enough for Elizabeth to notice that a zoned-out Weaver isn't listening. "Let me guess," she smiles. "Henry's got colic and you're barely sleeping." Kerry nods and they compare notes on the terrible twos versus infancy. "I hate to say it, but in some ways, it gets harder," says Elizabeth. Kerry commiserates that it must be twice as hard when you're alone: "Any prospects?" Elizabeth stops on the stairs and looks totally privately stunned that Weaver's showing conversational interest. She turns and says, "Uhh...I met a teacher recently. He's a nice man." But she doesn't know what to say after that. "Nice is good," Weaver manages. "Yes, it's...nice," says Elizabeth. They blink. They're either going to part ways, or flop down and paint their toenails while talking about sex and chocolate. In the same second, they choose the former, sufficiently wigged for today that they've just...gulp...bonded.