In New York, Mark (sans glasses, which only serves to make his head look even more like a penis) stares stoically ahead while Elizabeth shaves his skull. There is, like, a whole cup of shaving cream slopped onto the top of his head. Where there is no hair. Who do they think they're kidding with that? Anyway, she takes one swipe with the razor and nervously asks whether he's okay. He asks if he's bleeding; she says he isn't, so he says he's fine. They discuss some banal domestic matters, and, distracted, she slides the water-filled basin in which she'd been rinsing the razor off the bedside table and onto her sweater and skirt. She curses; he apologizes for distracting her; she tells him it's okay; he comments that she'll have to change into scrubs anyway. Uncomprehendingly, she repeats, "Scrubs?" Mark sadly deduces that she wasn't planning to be present during his surgery, and, without looking at him, she asks whether he doesn't think Dr. Humperdinck would object to her being there. Mark, even more sadly, admits that she's probably right, and that it'll probably be "pretty crowded in there." Yeah, crowded with screaming non-fans like me. Well, I would be there, but I couldn't get a ticket at the prices the scalpers were charging. Elizabeth finally realizes how badly she's crushed his gentle spirit, and asks him very seriously whether he wants her to come in. He says he doesn't, and tells her to go get changed, and he'll finish his head himself. They peck chastely, and she books. Mark picks up a hand mirror to examine his head, and gets a glimpse at the little kid in the next bed. The kid's lips are bright blue. I think he might be sick, or something.