“Mr. McKay came into the ER…” she begins as they move into her patient’s room. Trevor interrupts to remind her that they don’t have an “ER” in England. “Excuse me,” she says. “Into Casualty…” Trevor decides to interrupt her again, because the double-decker bus that drove up his rectum is illegally parked and got its tire clamped. He picks on her for not giving enough specifics, such as his race. “He’s a 63-year old Caucasian male…” Elizabeth continues tersely. “Man,” Trevor sneers. “I believe the noun for which you are searching is ‘man.’ ‘Male’ is an adjective. I have a male springer spaniel. His name is Barclay. And though I love him dearly, I would never think of bringing him to a hospital.” The residents next to Elizabeth contain their glee, but barely. “Please continue,” Trevor says, both genially and condescendingly. “Most of us speak a smattering of American.” Outright laughter ensues, with a buck-toothed baldie flashing his choppers behind Elizabeth’s right shoulder. If he’d been an inch closer, those things would’ve lopped off her earlobe. Lizzie shoots Trevor a look deadlier than Mark’s tumor.

Outside County General, it’s mayhem. Dr. Kerry “Chesty La Rue” Weaver is still wearing her tight blue shirt and is directing patients to other hospitals. The girl whose fiancé was stuck inside without her trots up to Kerry in a panic and asks where Colin is. “I don’t think they brought him out yet,” Weaver answers. She squints up at the bright lights coming from news copters and crabs that no one’s gotten rid of them yet. Suddenly, Susan trucks over with one last patient in a wheelchair. It’s Chem Glass from Popular, in what has to rank as the most pointless guest spot on the planet. It consists of one line. Don’t blink or you’ll read right over it. Weaver tells a paramedic named Zadro that he’s got one more patient to take to Lakeview. “Where am I supposed to put her, on my lap?” he whines. “Sounds good to me, Lucky Pants,” purrs Chem. And that’s a wrap. Hope they paid her well.