Pratt commences compressions while Carter recharges the paddles. He asks for a particular amount of a particular kind of medication. "You want to give that to kids?" Pratt gapes. "I think she's lighter than that." Carter glares at Mr. Medicine Chest and ignores him. He shocks Bree again; no response. "Call someone!" screams Robin, flapping her arms in the background and sweating all the hairspray off her unfortunate Flowbie coif. Adam and Craig -- sitting in Trauma Green -- can hear the dulled sounds of Robin's wails. "I want someone with more experience!" she screams. "There isn't anyone," Pratt booms. Robin's eyes bug out. "What he means is, no one's seen this disease for fifty years," Carter amends.
The Mob of Manufactured Tension swarms the front desk. "Why aren't you telling us anything?" Bearded Slob #3 screams at Luka, who swears up and down that they're not sure it's smallpox. Which I'm sure is very comforting -- the whole aura of "We have no idea what we're doing, but have a seat and enjoy the view" will indeed have a great calming effect on these angry, angry people. A few demand masks. "You don't need masks," Susan calls out. "You've already been exposed." Oh, good, Susan. "To what?" shrieks someone. "We don't know," Susan answers pleasantly. Let's review. Scared mob? Check. Flippant treatment of scared mob? Check. Careless dropping of frightening tidbits? Check. Yes, well played, my girl! Well played. Everyone screams that they want to leave, and Gallant reminds them that the Chicago police will arrest them if they do so. Susan flees.
Bree is dying. She's had a heart attack, and the paddles aren't jump-starting anything. Pratt wonders if there's a loose wire in the charger. Robin looks hopeful. "No," Carter says briskly. "Everything is working fine. Clear!" Nothing. Bree's in asystole. Pratt suggests that Carter check for a pulse with compressions; if there is none, Bree should get a fluid bolus. He's second-guessing everything Carter does. Abby stares at Pratt, stunned at the sheer size of his balls, which have actually inflated and filled the room. "That's not the problem," Carter insists childishly. "Maybe it'll help!" Robin screams. Maybe it would help if you would LEAVE THE ROOM. They are TRYING TO SAVE YOUR CHILD. When's the last time you went to medical school, Robin, huh? Right! That's what I thought. So shut up. Why have they not made her leave? Carter grudgingly and perfunctorily grabs Bree's wrist as Pratt compresses her chest. "Good pulse," he says. "She doesn't need fluid." Pratt suggests a high dose of epinephrine to get her juices flowing. "I said that's it," Carter yells. Robin wails. "He had an idea!" she shrieks. "You have to keep going! You have to keep going! Oh God!" But they won't.