Ah, but we do, and we see that Druggie has passed out in the parking lot. Abby, Carter, Weaver, and Pratt squat over him contemplatively. Apparently, Abby pumped him with 400 milligrams of justice. "That'll do it," Weaver says. They cart him away for treatment, complete with restraints and a Psych consult. Carter surveys Abby, and protectively suggests that she take off and go lie down. "I'm fine," she insists. He wants her to lie down anyway; despite the constant urgings to get on her back, Abby swears again that she's just peachy, as spiffy and shiny as a John T. Carter III penny loafer. Carter spies Weaver and demands to know what happened to those metal detectors they were supposed to get; she tries to brush it off. "We were supposed to have them a year ago," Carter persists. And you're only noticing their absence now? Way to be on the ball. Weaver blathers that metal detectors are not part of the current security plan. Carter's in a fit of pique at the idea that there's a "security plan" of which he knows nothing, because nothing excites him more than being all up in the hospital's bottom line. He runs after Weaver.
Eric approaches Abby. "So, you like it here, then?" he shakes his head. Abby grins that at least the days don't blur together. "What are you doing, Abby?" he tsks lightly. "You came on the wrong day," she says defensively. Eric babbles that Abby's clearly smarter than everyone else there -- which he gleaned from what, her scraping diarrhea off the floor, her finding severed fingertips, her letting a gunman kiss her cheek...what? Eric asserts that she's smart enough to know she doesn't need to be there. "That career advice came a little bit late, but thank you," she smiles. Eric worries that it's self-destructive -- helping people? So totally ruinous to the soul --- and Abby counters that she's happier than ever before, except for the whole gun-in-face escapade. "What happened to med school?" he asks. Abby pauses, bites back whatever she was going to say, and tells him she really can't talk right now because she's way behind on her patient load. "Call and give me your number," she says. "I've got three more hours," he protests. "I'm juggling ten patients," she shrugs. "Call me and have a great trip." She leaves. Eric's all, "Wuh?"