As everyone disperses, Abby squeaks in one more disgruntled facial expression, because apparently anyone who corrects her or disagrees with her is wrong and unfair. Raab crossly prods Abby to nickname the kid. "Jake. Sounds tough to me," says Abby. "Jacob to Jake. Very creative," snorts Raab. Abby flinches at her. She knows a dramatic foil when she sees one.
Virgie announces that there's a delivery in progress, so Raab sends the students off to observe it. Abby lingers. "What are you waiting for? Go, learn something," Raab waves her away. Then she shouts out instructions to Tom about Jake's care, and Abby stubbornly stays put, insisting that she can take care of Jake because he's her patient. A hidden, satisfied smile sneaks across Raab's face before she stiffens up and hands over Jake's chart. "Get CT surgery on the phone and tell them that your patient needs the OR right now. Not in forty-eight hours, not sometime today," Raab says. So apparently, Abby is going to display moxie.
Neela trots obediently after Matt on the way to the delivery, asking if they always drop everything and run whenever a phone call announces that tide is high in someone's birth canal. "Yep -- means some sick-ass baby is being born," Matt says glibly. Matt is the King of the Blithe -- Baron von Blasé, ruler of the nonchalant. Neela begs to do the intubation, if it's required. Matt's all, "Yeeeeah, you're hot under the collar for this, baby." "Okay, Little Gunnar, welcome to your first delivery," he says, barging into the birthing room. "Little Gunnar"? What the hell is wrong with these people?
Inside the room, an Asian woman is standing up with difficulty, bracing herself against the bed. A doctor has just caught the fetus that dropped from between her legs and hands it off to Matt. I didn't realize anyone but Terry Jones in Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life gave birth while standing. But then again, his character was doing the dishes when Kid #112 fell out, so I suppose that doesn't really count as a fair comparison. Matt takes Neela through drying off the gunk and warming up the baby so that it breathes and begins to cry. New babies are so gross. As long as I live, I don't want to see a squirming human covered in womb juice. I just don't. As they pink up the little boy, the mother pops out a twin girl. The father pokes his head over near Matt's to exposit that they were visiting from China when the babies came early. Neela has to go grab the second baby, which gets dumped like a limp blue rag into her arms. "This baby's not breathing," Neela gasps. We smash to black pretty sure that it's not breathing because it's a creepy-ass doll baby that looks like it was stolen from Rosemary. The only thing grosser than womb-juice babies are fake premature blue babies.