Apparently bereft of other duties despite the overcrowding in triage, Neela sits with Henry and kindly makes small talk with him about the drumstick he's holding. (The kind you use to play drums, not the delightful kind you fry up in greasy batter.) Paula enters and hugs him lovingly, but the moment's interrupted by Kyle, arriving in a cloud of irritation. Henry leaps at him delightedly. "Adam fell out of the cart and hit his head on the floor," Henry blurts. Paula hovers adoringly over Adam's crib while Neela fills Kyle in; he then accusingly hisses at Paula that she shouldn't mess up her kids' lives just because she's bent on fucking up her own. Paula whiffs her own excuse, saying now that she was upset coming from her lawyer and was crying. "So it's Adam's fault, it's my fault. How come it's never your fault, Paula?" Kyle asks. Henry just stands there, all, Thank God you don't get lippy, sweet drumstick. Paula inhales sharply, and then dazedly leaves the trauma room.
"Suction, Annie?" Dr. Diego smarms. Well, God, from him that could mean anything. But in this case, he's in surgery, and he's butchering both a patient and Abby's name. Dr. Elizabeth "Cut The" Corday is working with her post-Mark fling in the OR. "You know, Elizabeth, if I had another inch I'd be a happy man," he says. "And I'd be a bow-legged woman," Elizabeth should say. "Slide the distal stick in another centimeter," Diego intones. Elizabeth practically starts fanning herself. Diego announces that he wants them to try to repair six centimeters of Whatever The Hell in thirty minutes. "I'm not sure you have the stamina," Elizabeth flirts. Diego devours her with his eyes, lest anyone in the hospital be unsure exactly where his distal stick is currently being slid. Then nurse Jacy busts in and tells Dr. Diego that his wife is on the phone. Elizabeth is frozen in place, enraged and rather conveniently brandishing some scissors that I believe she'd like to use to make lots and lots of room in Diego's shorts for that extra inch. Abby looks up uncomfortably and silently wonders if she needs to scrub in anew for a castration.
Bob is using the world's biggest magnifying glass to read the paper. It's got to be some kind of medical equipment that he grabbed from a table, because there's no way he travels with that: "Is that an industrial-strength magnifying glass, or are you and your oddly square penis just happy to see me?" Bob reveals to Susan that he's got macular degeneration, and sadly, none of the new treatments cater to his type of disease. "How far along are you?" she asks, sympathetically. "Far enough," he shrugs. Elizabeth dryly whips out Bob's prescription of Digoxin and notes that it's empty. "Congratulations. Mystery solved," he says pleasantly. Susan doesn't think Bob ingested them all by accident, and worries that he's had suicidal thoughts. "Yes, in the seventh grade. I was a pudgy child," Bob deadpans. Susan doesn't appreciate his humor. "I'm a seventy-one-year-old man who's going blind. I've considered everything. I'd be crazy if I didn't," he sighs. Susan gently threatens to put him on a three-day psychiatric hold unless he speaks to someone about his problem. He has no interest in this, but recognizes that she has his jowls in her vise grip, and leans back against the bed, feeling put-upon.