Adam's body is making the machines bleep loudly. Craig continues to squeeze the bag, occasionally sneaking a peek but mostly trying to stare at anything except the giant incision in his son's neck. "Bag faster," Abby urges. Carter is stressed -- he can't make the damn thing work. "Help him, please!" Robin screeches. Oh, okay. As soon as Carter's done trying to give your son the oxygen he needs in order to LIVE, I'm sure he will get off his hasn't-sat-down-all-day ass and "help." So until then, shut up or leave. Seriously, just go. Carter finally snaps and begs Abby to rip off his mask and goggles. "I can't see, I can't breathe," he panics. "Do it, do it, I don't care." Abby obliges, and Carter breathes the sweet air of death once more. "Come on, Adam," he wills his patient. Abby loses the kid's pulse. Robin wails so hard she actually turns into a banshee. Abby starts CPR. A shot of Adam's face reveals that all this bleeding and tension and hysteria has left his paper-towel pustules completely unharmed. That's some good product right there. Carter suddenly has a breakthrough, too, now that Certain Doom is circulating freely in his lungs. He completes the tracheotomy, and Adam is saved. For now. Craig casually thanks Carter and Abby. We fade to black wondering what brand of paper towel the prop department used, and whether it's tough enough to clean up whatever's hiding behind the commode.
People gather at the television set, where the news is showing photographs of the last known smallpox cases. "That's horrible," one man decides. We pan across to Susan, who is examining Jerry's mouth with a flashlight. "It's the pox, I know it," he says. Susan grimaces that it's just a cold sore, and that its origins are something she hopes will remain a special, terrifying mystery. Suddenly, with a barbaric yawp the likes of which Ethan Hawke could never duplicate, Violent Idiot #4 -- Chandler, as a matter of fact -- breaks glass in the vending machine and starts raiding it. Because absolutely no one in the ER has change for a dollar, and dammit, he spent his last dime on that Twix only to watch it get bloody well stuck on the way down. Oh, your pain is mine, friend. Alison is psyched, and the two of them frantically stock up on munchies. Susan walks over there, the very image of bored annoyance. She absolutely refuses to react to anything, I think. Ninety-two percent of her facial expressions have actually gone on strike to protest their complete lack of use. Every morning, they throw tomatoes and raw eggs at her. "That is completely illegal," Susan sighs, picking her teeth and yawning. More or less. Alison quotes a Latin phrase that Chandler translates as "Necessity has no laws."