Luka craves a good, hard, lonely brood. The wrinkle? He broods near a highly trafficked front desk, which is more or less an invitation for your nosy ex-girlfriend to horn in on what should be a solo power-scowl. Abby makes a weak joke, which fizzles so dramatically that it's obvious Luka is immune to her charms right now. Sadly, he confesses that he went to the bar and asked about Neecole; no one heard from her, but apparently, she Winona Rydered from that establishment as well. Abby sucks in her cheeks and looks away, barely trying to mask her "I told you so" ocular gleam. Luka sees her, though, and acknowledges that Abby was right about Neecole. He walks away, and I get the sense that Abby feels a bit conflicted about her triumph.
Two bratty, screaming kids shriek into the ER, dragged in by Sandy "I Won't Go Until I Get Some" Lopez. The young boy and girl yell "freak" over and over, each trying to trump the other. Weaver makes a mental note to tie her own tubes during her next coffee break. One kid has his arm in a sling, and the other is holding tissue to her forehead. Lopez tries to shut up the kids, but they won't listen, so Haleh spirits them away by the scruffs of their necks and with the definite promise of sweet, delicious discipline, a can of whoop-ass only Haleh could open. "Hey, you didn't call," Sandy says once she's alone with Kerry. "What happened, did you change your mind?" Kerry, faintly uncomfortable, shepherds her toward the lounge. But she's distracted by a patient she can't ignore, so Sandy glumly leaves. Weaver gets back to work, but pauses long enough to check out Sandy's disappearing ass.
Susan and Benton treat an elderly African-American man lying on his side, getting stitches in his head. Susan exposits that the cops found him roaming O'Hare with a suitcase, but sans ticket or ID. He fell on an escalator while trying to flee them. Yow. I almost fell down an escalator once, but managed to throw my bags down it instead of my body. One of them broke. It dumped out my bras and several pairs of black underwear, to the delight of the ten-year-old boy behind me, who excitedly asked his mom if he should help me pick them up. Ah, memories. Benton examines the patient's skull and says it's not a terribly deep or grave wound. "I'm missing my flight," the man says softly, vaguely concerned. Susan listens to his absent ramblings and deduces he's an amnesiac, then turns around to prepare some supplies. Benton, mid-diagnosis, notices that Roma is waiting for him at reception; he drops everything and bolts out to meet her. That should be worth some kind of discount. The old man rambles about the women he probably knows, who he thinks cook a marvelous Christmas supper. "Do you think the amnesia is temporary?" Susan asks Benton. Silence. She whirls and notices he's ditched her.