There's blood everywhere on Adam. Robin is getting sick at the sight of all her son's blood pouring out of his throat and pooling in his collarbone. So get OUT of the TRAUMA ROOM, woman. Are they not hearing me? Am I not using enough capital letters? Carter freaks because he can't see the tracheal rings, and Abby desperately tries to suction out all the flowing blood so that Carter's view is unobstructed. But she's also bagging Adam and pumping oxygen in through his mouth, and she can't do both. So she asks Craig to get off his lazy duff and pump. Incidentally, that's exactly what Robin said the night Adam was conceived. "Pressure's dropping!" Abby yells. Carter tries desperately to complete the procedure.
Outside, Weaver deals with Colin's confused fiancée by promising to check on him as soon as she's allowed inside. We pan up to show all the emergency vehicles and news crews that have flocked to the area, and two new ones pull up. A Dr. Lutz -- presumably from the CDC or the public-health department -- leaps out and dishes out remarks like "no comment" and "no statement" and other two-word phrases that are crisis slang for "something is desperately wrong and we have no idea what to do about it, so we're going to pretend you believe that there's nothing to comment on, and we'll all go have a Coke and a smile." Weaver introduces herself as the chief of the ER and the head of County General's bioterrorism committee. Oh, please. She totally just thought that one up while poking around in Marta's bullet wound. But hey, whatever gets her inside the hospital. This tactic, however, fails. "We can only bring in necessary personnel at this point," Lutz says, pushing past Security. "This is my ER," Weaver insists emotionally. "Not anymore," Lutz says calmly. Weaver is left behind to contemplate what that might mean for her character next season, and how many different pensive stares into middle distance she'll have to execute.
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.