Poirot finds Weaver in the hall and demands to speak with Brianne. Weaver, though, wants the child to finish with the pediatric Psych consult because she's showing signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. "She just saw someone put five bullets into her father!" she argues. "Yeah, and I need to know who did it," Poirot insists, claiming Dennis is a known drug dealer with big enemies. And now, many small bullet holes. Poirot tries to scare Weaver, claiming that the shooter will probably show up and try to wax young Brianne because she's the only witness. Her junkie mother is even a suspect. This kid's life couldn't be worse, America. Open your hearts. Weaver agrees that she should have an officer outside Brianne's door, but wants to talk to her before the cop does.
Elizabeth reports that the bullets shattered Dennis's heart, rendering him entirely dead. She offers to speak with Brianne, but since she's as comforting as an icicle enema, Weaver declines and vows to deal with the child herself.
Mark is strapped into a funky helmet thing that reminds me of Doc Brown's 1950s mind-reading hat from Back to the Future, except for the fact that they actually look quite different. Never mind. The technician, who our forum eagle-eyes identified as Vondie Curtis-Hall's wife, apologizes for keeping him waiting and promises that the procedure shouldn't exceed forty minutes. With 210 Gamma rays, she plans to pinpoint the tumor and fry its ugly shriveled ass. "What happens if I sneeze?" Mark asks. "Try not to," She-Vondie advises. "It could vaporize all the brain matter in your skull cavity." Mark blinks. It's the wittiest comeback this side of a toe wiggle. The machine sucks Mark in to the tune of Beethoven's lesser-known work, "My Brain Hurts," in D minor.
Jerry hangs out at the front desk, blissfully unaware of the terror that's about to visit him. Her name is Elizabeth, and she gritchily points out that she's been waiting for Mark. "He left," Jerry says innocently. Irritated and dumbfounded, Elizabeth wants to know if he left a message as to his whereabouts. "Sorry," Jerry says pleasantly. Elizabeth furrows her brow so as to induce a right tantrum, and scowls at the wall when Jerry offers to page Mark.
Mark, clad in a standard-issue hospital gown, sits forlornly in a darkened room. She-Vondie enters and pleasantly advises him to take it easy in the next few days, since many patients report headaches, nausea or actual vomiting after undergoing the Gamma treatment. I'm sure Carter can relate. And oh, dear God, this is when it all starts to unravel. Mark whips off his gown and stands there, shirtless, while the technician blathers on about seizures. I think I might have one. Picture the famed Top Gun volleyball scene, add fifteen years and some stray hairs, and then flog yourself with a hair dryer. It approximates this experience. She-Vondie tactfully refrains from screaming. Instead, she warns Mark to make sure he's got adult company that evening in case any side effects overwhelm him; he lies that Rachel will be around. Because he's stoic. He's a hero.