Oh, good, its Dr. Elizabeth "Old Yeller" Corday, here to remind me how unwatchable she's become. She snipes that someone called for a surgical consult, and then blanches when Abby informs her that it was Mark. Professionalism calls me from a beach in Tahiti and tells me it's been living there for six months now and has a wicked tan.
Trauma Green. Burn Victim. We'll call him Guy Fawkes for all the British readers. Elizabeth isn't happy with Guy's stats or the flow of his breathing, but Mark insists he isn't ready to intubate yet. Elizabeth rudely disagrees with that assessment, but the arrival of Mrs. Fawkes interrupts this glimpse into Chapter Ten of Oops! I Did It Again: Office Romances And Me. Mark bounds out to deal with his patient's wife.
Mrs. Fawkes is freaking out. Mark explains that the burns caused Guy's chest tissue to swell, which in turn has impeded his breathing. Elizabeth is assessing whether he'll need a procedure to fix this. "An escharotomy?" Mrs. Fawkes gasps, horrified. Apparently, she's a nurse at Mercy Hospital, so she proceeds to ask knowledgeable questions and then gets weepy when Mark supplies honest answers. Guy? Isn't doing so well. Mrs. Fawkes explains that he had been painting furniture for their son's bedroom, but that he paints cars for a living, so he knows not to mix heat with the fumes. Mark promises to do what he can, and returns to Trauma Green.
Before he gets there, though, Mark sees that Elizabeth has already left, so he trails her instead. She makes a bitchy comment to the effect that Guy needs to be intubated. I hate her all over again. As she hoofs it for the elevator, Mark trots along and shares that he brought everything she requested for Ella. "What are we doing?" he whispers. Elizabeth ducks and feints to avoid direct eye contact. Mark begs her to come home because he misses them desperately, acknowledges her right to be angry, but swears that hotel living isn't going to solve any of their problems. "I'm not trying to punish you," she sighs, exasperated but clearly unwilling to throw him a bone of any kind. "I'm just trying to do what's best for Ella," she lies. Mark figures living at home with both parents is probably high on the What's Best For Ella list, although I'm sure room service for Mommy is a close second. Elizabeth concurs. "So when are you coming home?" he persists. "I don't know," Elizabeth says firmly, emotionlessly, as the elevator doors shut.
In Trauma Yellow, Mark toils over a boy named Aaron, assisted by Dr. Kerry "With Hair This Nice, I Don't Need A" Weaver. The boy can't feel his extremities, but Weaver can't detect any sign of nerve infraction. Mark still wants Aaron to stick with the neck collar, and they want to sandwich his head with sandbags to keep it from moving in case there has been some kind of spinal-cord damage. Mark pushes on Aaron's chest. The boy doesn't feel it. He looks scared. Officer Exposition enters so that we learn Aaron fell victim to a sledding accident, most likely engineered by his drunk father, who pulled the mini-chariot behind a snowmobile. Weaver's head snaps up. "You smelled alcohol on his breath?" she gapes. Officer Expo shrugs and says he didn't, but the man just seems out of it, so perhaps it's drugs instead of booze. Aaron's eyes dart from side to side. Mark checks the clock. "Going somewhere?" Weaver asks Mark, who feigns innocence. "That's the third time you've looked at the clock," Weaver adds. Perhaps he's wondering why it reads 5:10, which makes zero sense given how light it is already, how Rachel was awake and functioning at least an hour ago, and how Mark's surreptitious glances leads one to believe his 1:30 appointment is fast approaching. Nice prop, ER. Mark ignores Weaver and the obvious space-time continuum issues, preferring to poke Aaron's arm as hard as he can, ostensibly to determine the extent of his injury, although it doesn't hurt that it could double as a stress ball. "Why can't I feel my arms?" Aaron panics woodenly.