Outside on a bench, Abby's taking what looks like her second pass at Carter's letter. She stares blankly at the pages and shakes her head, biting her lip with a hurt, tight smile. Suddenly, Lydia, Conni, Yosh, and six extras who are totally going to get fired appear and announce they're walking out and convening at Dunkin' Donuts: For All Your Glazed And Fresh-Brewed Nurses' Strike Needs. "If we don't take a stand, they're going to replace us with part-time nurses so they don't have to pay benefits," Lydia explains. Don't they have unions that would handle this type of thing? Wouldn't there be a formalized strike, rather than this half-assed Carter-style ill-planned I Can't Believe It's Not "Insurrection" walkout? Abby sighs that Romano's welcome to replace her, and doesn't follow her fellow nurses to the donut shop on The Someone's Having A Bad Day Contrivance of 2003.
Frank shows up outside to bitch -- rightly -- that no one's working. Abby has resumed staring at the letter, which she then tries stuffing back into the envelope, wounded. "Someone fainted in the waiting area, took a header into an end table; there's blood everywhere," Frank informs her. "Abby?" She lets her head loll backward in grief, trying to soak in having just been dumped by Second-Class Luka Mail without getting any actual time to let it sink in properly. I feel pretty sorry for her. Not only is Carter a giant coward for saying it in a letter -- no phones in Congo? Please. They found one to call him about Luka, and I'm guessing they didn't have the kind of cash Carter could spread around -- but he didn't warn Luka not to deliver it at work. What's that smell? Eau de Douchebag?
Abby collects herself and jerks upright, griping to Frank, "Why are you telling me this?" Frank tsks that her break is over, so Abby gives the letter one last, pained look, and then slowly crumples it up and tosses it at the trash can. But she misses, because she couldn't play basketball with George Clooney back in the day, since she wasn't on the show then. "That's right, leave me to pick up after you," Frank grumbles, grabbing the paper and not even pretending to think about throwing it out before he unfolds it and begins to read.
Cooper chases after Pratt, sucking on his inhaler as he tries to keep up. Man, Coop really does look like a mini-Vaughn, which is a whole lot better than Wee Chen. Pratt's carrying an enormous stack of charts and files. "You're Pratt, right?" Cooper asks. "Yeah," Pratt growls. "I'm Nick Cooper. My friends call me Coop," says Coop. He asks a question about protocol, and Pratt's clearly kind of annoyed that a new person's asking him for help. "Listen, you guys gotta start picking it up. It's already 10:30 and we're twenty patients behind," he sighs. "I got six," argues Coop. "But the other two guys are dragging their asses," whines Pratt. Coop tries to stick up for them, to his credit, and then grabs the stack of files as a peace offering. "We'll blast through these," he says. "They're out the door in twenty." Pratt waves him off brusquely, because he's a shit.