Chen, after years of medical training and several seasons on ER, has finally located Romano’s pulse. Someone give that girl a cookie. A fortune cookie, and the fortune within will read, “You have been handed a great opportunity… for career change.” Anspaugh walks in and grays slightly at the sight of RoboStump. The learn the arm is on ice. Joe Gunn -- I can’t not use both his names; they’re too generically dramatic -- picks it up for a quick squizz. The green wires poking out of Arm of Darkness look like antennae. The thing looks alive. I think one of them just perked up and caressed Joe Gunn’s cheek. A quick cut to Pratt shows us that he’s affected by what he sees, and not, as we’ve come to think, an unfeeling basket of rat guts. “He’s coming around,” Pratt notes. Anspaugh urgently asks Gunn what he thinks of the situation. “I don’t know,” Gunn muses. “Above the elbow’s tough.” Anspaugh shouts, “Yes or no?!?” Gunn replies, “Maybe.” The arm is thriving during this time. I’m pretty sure it’s about to walk off on its own and start a cabaret act. Called simply, “Jazz Hand.” Romano’s eyes flicker open and he registers what’s happening with a mixture of disbelief and, I suspect, dread. “Awwww,” he moans weakly. “I’m at County.”
Gallant is running. Run, Mikey, run! He scurries through the halls and eventually runs smack into Monty’s gurney. Monty’s machinery, which in its boredom and overuse has beeped its way heroically through the entire score of Fiddler on the Roof, has just kicked into the Six Feet Under theme. Susan is slumped against the wall, trying to recover both her wits and her breath. She stares vacantly at Gallant, whose face crumbles, crushed that he got there too late. Susan fights tears. Monty is dead. We go to commercial wondering why they chose this as the act-out, because it doesn’t make me want to come back, and Monty was old, and we didn’t know him, and Gallant isn’t naked. Wait, did I say that out loud?
Day 7. Yes! They’re fast-forwarding. Abby is washing her hair over a basin, with Chen’s assistance. They gripe about how isolated they feel, and how one more week of seclusion sounds like torture. “It feels like we’re the last people on the planet,” Abby sighs. “If we were, I’d move into the best suite at the Ritz,” Chen decides. Abby ponders and opts for a shopping spree. Hello? Both, people. Dream big. Abby shakes out her wet hair, in which blond streaks are now visible. “Ooh, hot,” Chen says. Abby’s streaks are salon-perfect, of course, because that’s totally what happens when you’re bored in a hospital and you use peroxide.