"Day Seventeen, 3:15 PM." Dirk is ready to go home. As Mr. Tseng fusses over him, Mei Fan stares morosely and vacantly at Inga. Apparently, her lungs are at least getting a little stronger, but they won't know how bad the brain damage is until Rex stops tap-dancing on it. "She's a strong girl," Mei Fan sniffles. "Yes, she is," Neela says firmly.
Abby is giving a new mother a pained look as she explains that, although "Cher" is a lovely name, she might want to reconsider spelling it "Chair." Abby should read some sports rosters -- "Chair" is nothing next to "Anfernee." Walking away with a shake of her head, Abby sighs, "Poor Chair." Matt quips, "Unless she meets a nice Ottoman someday." Then he cheerfully asks if anyone's heard any funny dead baby stories lately. Matt is like Coop with half the looks, Lester with half the quirk, and Malarkey with twice the inappropriate. He's a real witch's brew of mediocrity. "Here's a good one," Neela snaps, rattling off all the things that are wrong with Inga. "She's not dead, but she might never wake up. It's a real laugh." Her voice is a knife. "Bad day, Neela?" Raab asks dryly. Neela rants that they spent millions trying to save babies who mostly end up dying anyway. She doesn't know why they bother. Raab explains that forty years ago, Inga wouldn't even have had a chance, and that in many countries that's still the case. "We saved her so she can enjoy a lifetime of seizures, chronic lung disease, cerebral palsy -- it's a real advance," Neela snarks. She's being outright disdainful and completely bitter. It's sort of strange. Raab shrugs that there are no guarantees in this line of work. "If you can't live with that, I suggest you become a bank teller," she says icily. Matt whispers, "Don't listen to her -- my cousin's a bank teller, and she got held up at gunpoint last year."