Next up is a boy with his hand stuck up the ass of a blue ceramic pig. Mark smiles, briefly recalling his own adolescent search for sexual answers. "Who's sick, you or the pig?" Mark jokes feebly. Bratface moans that Mark isn't funny -- correct -- and that his hand hurts, which is probably also true. "Think how the pig feels," Mark geeks. Dr. Kerry "Wuv 'er and" Weaver charges over there demanding to know what Mark is doing. "Trying to treat patients before they eat each other," he replies. Haleh cheers that he's already discharged two people. "Thank you, Haleh," Weaver praises, as if the nurse just proved her point that County General's staff is far too careless. Mark grabs some lubricant and prepares to yank off the pig. God, I enjoyed writing that sentence. Weaver frets that Mark's analysis of Jenny's bladder infection didn't include proper consideration of other, more serious conditions, but he insists it was a plain old UTI and nothing more. Bratface makes a fist, and Mark successfully performs the pigectomy. "I want all patients to be examined thoroughly," Weaver snipes. "The moment we become complacent, we make mistakes." Mark groans, "Speak for yourself," but she has already ordered Haleh to gown Jenny and prep her for a pelvic exam. It's probably a terrible idea to discuss this in front of patients who are in the act of being treated, but one could never accuse the County staff of being discreet.
Jing-Mei "Deb" Chen flags down Weaver and briefs her on a twenty-two-year-old woman with chest pains and palpitations, a normal EKG, and a pulse ox of ninety-seven. The only point of uncertainty is whether the woman's birth-control pills could complicate the situation, so Chen wants to know whether to order different tests. "I got it," Weaver says curtly. "You can look at last month's QI data." Chen protests, but Weaver grabs the chart and takes off. "Okay," Chen says, sarcastic and frustrated, shooting Weaver a really funny look that betrays her urge to throttle the boss.
Before Chen can wallow in her irritation, a pretty paramedic dashes into the ER cradling a baby in a blanket. She gives Chen the bullet: newborn female, maybe two hours old, abandoned at St. Anthony's church, cold to the touch, some peripheral cyanosis, clear airways, and a weak cry. Chen sends her to Trauma One.
In a quiet room, while they treat a knocked-out patient, Cleo "Control-Alt-Delete" Finch and Benton discuss Reese's palpable grief for his dead mother. Cleo wonders whether Benton's tried moving Reese back to his own room after he's already fallen asleep. "Doesn't matter, he still cries," sighs Peter. Reese is also suffering from horrible nightmares that he can't remember once he wakes up, and one night padded through the hallways with a flashlight looking for her. Aw! "Poor guy, he's confused!" Cleo coos. Benton morosely explains that it's just dawned on him that Reese will grow up the rest of his life without a mother, "something so basic, such a big part of who he's going to be, and there's nothing I can do about it." He should call over to General Hospital -- people come back from the dead all the time over there. Um, not that I watch, or anything. No. At that second, Dr. Dave "Hoochie-Coochie" Malucci bursts in and tells Cleo that he reduced her prolapsed rectum. Oh, so that's why she's so sullen all the time! Cleo, though, thinks he's referring to one of her patients, and is angry. "You treated my patient?" she gasps. Malucci sanctimoniously says that the girl was in a lot of pain, so he used his sugar trick -- sprinkle it on, water escapes from the mucosa, the edema subsides, and "pop that puppy back in," he explains. Benton frowns that Dr. Dave should've first made sure it wasn't a prolapsed hemorrhoid, but Malucci twinkles, "Trust me, that was no hemorrhoid." Cleo's human interface twitches, which by her standards is a show of rage.