Mmm, Russell Crowe in a leather skirt. I can dig it.
Carter strolls in behind the desk in a rather natty suit and is instantly rewarded by Chuny, who tells him he's "looking sharp." She asks where he's been, and he says he's been checking out condos in Lincoln Park. "Ooh, very trendy," says Chuny. "And expensive," adds a passing Amira. Woo! Amira's back! Sars and I were just discussing her, like, two days ago. I like Randi in small doses, but she's a lot to take week after week. Thank you, writers, for leavening the Randi with a little Amira. "Too many damn yuppies if you ask me," mutters "Dr." Dave Malucci. "You're a yuppie, Dave," says Carter. "No way," protests Dr. Dave. "Young Urban Professional -- that's you," Chuny tells him, and walks out just as Kerry "Kerry, Why You Buggin'?" Weaver comes in. "Hey, Chief -- am I a yuppie?" Dr. Dave asks her. "No, but you will be when you grow up," Weaver drawls. Ooh, burn! Get Dr. Dave a skin-graft 'cause he just got a third-degree buuuuuuuuurn! Weaver sets down a stack of charts and announces that Mark won't be in again tonight, and that she needs someone to cover his shift again. Carter volunteers, saying that since he's the senior resident, it's his responsibility. Weaver thanks him, and he takes off. Amira tells Weaver that her EMS meeting's been changed to 10 AM. Weaver asks her where Carol is, and Amira points her out, pulling a cart into a curtain area. Weaver calls her name but Carol doesn't hear her (or is ignoring her), so Weaver crutches in after her and says, "I need the paramedic compliance data on aspirin in chest pain." Carol briskly kisses her off: "Okay, I'll get to it." Weaver does a double-take, and crutches back in, saying, "I put a memo in your box last week, you didn't see it?" This pulls Carol up short, and she apologetically says she must have forgotten. Weaver groans, "The meeting's in two hours. I know it's a lot, but I need you to compile the data." "I'll get to it," Carol promises. "You'll do it?" Weaver asks. "I will do it," Carol replies emphatically. Weaver nods and crutches out. Gee, do you think Carol will do it?
Mark carries a tray of french toast into the living room and sets it before Holling, who is lying in bed looking...well, really, really bad. He's very pale -- even his hair looks pale -- his skin has a very unhealthy waxy sheen to it, and his eyes and mouth are slack. As Mark moves the bed up to put Holling in a sitting position, he asks whether Holling wants the TV on. "No," Holling growls. Mark asks him to lean forward so that he can slide a pillow behind Holling's back, and Holling groans at the effort it requires. Mark asks whether Holling is in pain, and Holling says he is when he takes a breath. Um. Whoa. Mark says it's probably pleurisy from his recent pneumonia, and prepares a syringe with Toradol. Mark asks Holling whether he's hungry, and Holling moans, "NO," in a tone that suggests that they've already had this exchange several times. Mark tries to jolly him into eating, even putting a bite of toast on a fork and holding it in front of Holling's mouth. Holling takes the fork, bites a tiny crumb off the chunk of french toast, and chews it joylessly. Mmm, french toast. I really have to start eating breakfast before I try to write these damn things.