"This is wrong," Abby lips. "You know it. We're teaching her not to trust us at exactly the time she should be trusting us the most." Susan throws up her hands and wonders what crawled up Abby's ass and laid spinal eggs. "You practically start a thoracotomy on your own, and then you talk to my patients when I ask you not to!" Susan marvels. "Someone should," Abby mumbles. "It's not your call. You're not her doctor. You're her nurse," Susan says. The blinds open and close rapid-fire, and the Morse code message reads thus: "If you don't know where you're going, then you should have your driver's license revoked." Susan snaps that Abby should obey her direct orders, and Abby morosely stares through the window at Elle's retreating figure. She gnaws on the inside of her cheek for a second so that we can feel her inner conflict, and we fade to black wondering how much more her cheek can stand before she bites right through to the outside.
Cooper skips into Trauma Yellow to watch Old Man Crabby get his fluids checked and his tires rotated. Dr. Eddie "Diego" Dorsett strides in, all cocksure confidence and swagger, and he's really pretty hot. Carter who? Pratt what? Mark heh? Exactly. "Your service refused to come down," Susan scolds. "Those bastards hate to leave the hot tub," Diego deadpans. "You," he says to Abby. "Grab the betadine." Abby's startled. Susan can't believe he's not taking Old Man Crabby upstairs to do whatever procedure is required. "You didn't leave enough gas to get him there," Dr. Diego says. Malarkey announces that he's scrubbed and ready. "Nicely done. Maybe you can detail my Jag after work," Diego smarms. Susan glares at him. "Try a little more teaching and a little less standup," Elizabeth warns stiffly. Susan can't believe Dr. Diego's about to cut into a patient in the ER when he should be in the OR, and she's worried about taking the fall if it turns sour. "It's like we say upstairs -- what happens in the ER stays in the ER," Diego shrugs. "Cover your eyes, kids. This is gonna be some bad-ass juju." God, he makes those lame words sound almost rhythmic. He may be a total jackass, but he works it.
Dr. Diego makes an incision and I wince. Elizabeth pulls apart the gash and they dive inside with a really juicy, sloshy noise, and I cover my eyes and ears and start singing the Notre Dame Victory March to drown out the sheer pain of the fact that, yes, I inexplicably recap a medical show. "Ohhh," Diego moans. "Remember the Law of Leplace?" The residents are silent, so Abby pipes up a perfect answer: it has to do with arteries and pressure divided by wall thickness, and my God, who has time for math in a situation like this? Up yours, Leplace. Take your law and shove it. "You two have just been nurse-slapped," Diego grins at Coop and Malarkey. He's still elbow-deep in Old Man Crabby's juicy abdomen, by the way. "Know what it means?" he asks. "It means he's about to die," Susan crabs. "Anyone can rip a man's heart out," intones Diego. "But fixing it without looking? That's why I get the big money and all the hot chicks." Susan and Elizabeth swap disbelieving looks. "Oh, I've got the superciliac aorta in my hands!" Diego says with a flourish. "That means we have proximal control." Elizabeth gets this dreamy look on her face. "Don't try this at home," Diego leers. "Or anywhere near this hospital," scolds a disapproving Susan. Diego and Elizabeth, meanwhile, are getting all moony with each other over rustling around inside the same old man's belly. "Do you need a clamp?" she asks, all breathy. "I can keep my finger in it," he replies. Translation: "Do you need a condom?" "Don't worry, baby, I can hold it a while longer."