In the lounge, Weaver rehearses a speech about Romano. "His dedication to his staff and his patients would be hard to...hard to...." Prove? Carter enters to get permission for his girlfriend to hang out that day and watch. "She has her Masters in public health," he offers, as if that means it's okay for him to make matters of other people's health public to her. As they mosey outside, Carter adds that Kem also wants to talk to some public health nurses to see how they treat communicable disease. I imagine the answer involves a lot of technology she won't be able to get in the Congo, which is therefore incredibly unhelpful to her, and is also an indicator that the stale cloud of death stank hanging over Gamma's manse is getting rather stifling. Anyway, Weaver's fine with it, and hopes Kem's presence will be motivating for everyone. I'm sure she'll regret that when sixty "motivated" nurses beg off work early and get in line for liposuction.
Weaver snaps at everyone that she wants them in the lobby at 9 AM for a dedication. Frank shovels more perogi into his gaping maw. God, Frank, chew. It's like Garfield with a pan of lasagna over there.
Meanwhile, Kem has tailed Sam outside, and is asking her whether patients with STDs get routine HIV testing. "Sometimes," Sam shrugs. "It depends on the doctor." Translation: everyone does but Luka, who prefers the cheaper option of throwing the urine sample aloft, spinning three times, and chanting the time-honored adage, "If the drops blow east, HIV we will treat; if they fly west, no need for a test." Carter pops up to tell Kem that Weaver authorized her visit. Sam's all, "Are you on crack, girl? Go home and get in the hot tub." Kem's face seems to reply, "There's a portrait of Gamma hanging over it. I'd rather eat a skateboard."
An ambulance pulls up and the driver hops out, Gallant on his tail. Lucky dog. It's his ride-along day, apparently, which happens twice a year and is basically an excuse for Gallant to wear a cute knit skull-cap. Their patient is a thirty-one-year-old man who fell down the stairs and is complaining of back and stomach pain. Everyone goes inside.
Frank is hunched over the front desk, pale as the white man whose supremacy he so vehemently champions. "I think I'm having a heart attack," he croaks to Abby. "Are you kidding?" she asks. "Do I look like I'm kidding?" he snaps. She sits him down and worriedly screams for some medicine just as Frank opens his mouth and releases a blast of gas that flattens the common man in riot zones nationwide, but which Frank knows only as "a belch." He's relieved. "I bet it's just those breakfast perogis," he nods as Abby fans the toxins elsewhere.