In Kerri's room, her kids are doing what most kids do in boring, enclosed spaces: They're using the props available in unconventional yet entertaining ways. One kid uses an IV stand as a guitar; another has his chest pressed on the seat of a rolling stool and is trucking all over the floor on it, propelling himself by his feet. (That actually looks kind of fun.) Kerri's daughter is sitting on the bed with her; from her perch, Kerri ineffectually calls out requests to the kids to behave themselves. Lisa changes the baby's diaper, calling over her shoulder to Kerri that "he's so cute." Kerri insists that she can change the diaper, and that she's really feeling much better, but Lisa tells her it's no problem. The kids continue to make noise as Lisa remarks, "Four kids under eight -- that's very ambitious." Maybe that's a regionalism with which I'm not familiar; in Chicago, does "ambitious" also mean "suicidal"? Kerri corrects her: "Five; the baby's at home with the neighbour." Lisa tells Kerri that she's probably just exhausted, but that they want to do a head CT, just in case, and that Lisa's giving her saline to hydrate her. Kerri asks what a CT is, and Lisa explains that it's a picture of her brain. At this point, Conni comes in to say that a volunteer in pedes has agreed to look after the kids in the playroom. Kerri protests that she doesn't want to be any trouble, and Conni assures her that it's no trouble. After some argument from Wyatt, the eldest (which Conni heads off by telling him that there's a Nintendo in the playroom), they all truck on out of there, and suddenly the world seems like a much quieter place. Kerri gazes after them beatifically. Lisa asks, "How do you do it?" "One day at a time," Kerri breathes.