Abby's in her nursing scrubs now. Lester and Neela call out to her with questions that she answers without missing a beat; there are anvils pinning me to the couch and straightening my hair, but I don't yet know if they say that she's better suited to nursing, or that she's just totally competent when she's able to relax into confidence. Either way, she needs a new hairdo.
Frank passes out photos from his mystery roll of film that he apparently got developed despite the fact that a helicopter blew up at his workplace. Pratt stumbles upon Malarkey spacing out at Reception. "Dr. Romano told me to wait here," Malarkey shrugs. "So you sat on your ass through a mass casualty?" Pratt gapes. "Yeah," nods Malarkey cheerfully. Pratt resists the temptation to roll up The Complete Filmography Of Scott Wolf and give him an enema with it, mostly because that wouldn't be a big enough object to cause any lasting damage. Neela interestedly peers at some of the snaps. There's an old one from a Christmas party with Mark, which is a nice touch despite the fact that I don't enjoy revisiting his existence. "I'm going to need massive caffeine to make it to sunrise," Abby grumbles good-naturedly. The nurses hand her a candid of herself and Romano in which he's frowning death and malice in the background and she's furrowing her brow right in the foreground. Abby's horrified by the shot. Chuny finds one from the 2001 Secret Santa party, and wonders if anyone's heard from Carter lately. Apparently, he sent a postcard. Abby admits that she doesn't have any idea how he's doing, and absently starts erasing the board.
We fade to a view of one of the biggest natural disasters known to man: Carter with overgrown hair and a shaggy beard. He's staring off into space, most likely wondering about his friends but probably also hoping Abby's okay, since it's a holiday and she likes to park the wagon in a dark alley and run off for an illicit tipple. Suddenly, Thandie Newton sits up behind him, wraps her arms around his neck, and coos, "What are you thinking about?" Carter sighs. He's berating himself for blowing his Maurice Gibb tribute beard on the Congo crowd when it would've been hilarious at parties stateside. "Nothing," he finally lies. Thandie kisses him on the neck and purrs, "Come back to bed." Carter obliges, because he knows it's only a matter of time before she looks in the mirror and is like, "Oh my God, I'm Thandie Newton, and you're the fucking Unabomber." Also, I really, really didn't miss Carter one bit.