A sad-looking brunette rubs her face. She's Mrs. Norris, Jeremy's mother, and she's fairly aggrieved at her son's fate. "How is he?" she implores Luka. To minimize the panicked woman's mounting fear, Luka soothes her with word of her son's hematoma, collapsed lung and pool of blood collecting in his chest cavity; as a bonus, he adds that Jeremy's in the OR, and then ices the tragedy cake with news of his probable head injury. Mrs. Norris celebrates by covering her mouth and sobbing. The kid with her, presumably Jeremy's prepubescent skater pal, bolts upright and points at David, who is limping toward them. "There's the idiot who was chasing him! Right there!" he shouts. Mrs. Norris bristles and flings accusations at the man, supported by helpful comments from Skippy like, "He threw a stick at him!" and "You knocked him off his skateboard!" The hysteria engendered by Runty Puberty Friend's Finger of Blame continues to devolve into shouts and screams, matched with David's fervent denials. Gallant escorts the guard away. "I saw it all," Runty Oily Squeak Boy whimpers. "That man should be arrested, or something." Mrs. Norris wants to see her son, so Luka promises to check on him quickly and return with an update. "Dr. Kovac," calls Gallant. "I think [David is] having a heart attack!" Spotty Pimple Pus Child snorts, "Good." Mrs. Norris stares down the hall. Luka totally wants a Tylenol, but Tylenol didn't sponsor this week's show, so nobody offers him one.
David, suffering from chest pains, is hyperventilating. "I don't feel so good," he groans, hunched on a bed in an exam room. "My head is spinning." Luka sends Gallant in search of oxygen, aspirin, and some EKG equipment. David insists he was only trying to offer his condolences, and didn't mean to upset Mrs. Norris. "He rode by me, stole my hat," pants David. "[He kept] tossing it back and forth, threatening to throw it in the fountain. They were terrorizing the entire mall!" Yeah! Take note, Hat Terrorists! Vengeance is coming for you, in the form of portly men in tan uniforms -- just like The Bible said it would happen. Without making eye contact, Luka softly asks whether David lobbed his nightstick at Jeremy. No answer.
Elizabeth, carrying a fat stack of files, hails Dr. Zogoiby with a question about a patient of hers that he worked on several weeks ago. "I'm having a little difficulty reading your notes," she says, apologetically. "You put in a central line." Zogoiby checks the file, and reminds her that he skipped out before performing the procedure because his son fell off the monkey bars at school. The on-call anesthesiologist subbed for him. "Babcock," he says. "Babcock!" Elizabeth whispers. "Babcock!" I shout. "Babcock," the wind whistles. "Bad cock!" yells Mark, before realizing he woefully misheard the chorus.