Mark ups the paddle charge to 360, but Rudy isn't reviving, having lingered in asystole for forty-five minutes. Jorge and Papa Escalona watch from outside, finally out of the way. Mark wants Gallant to continue compressions, because he's going to notify the family before calling time of death.

"Rudy hasn't had a heartbeat in almost an hour," Mark begins. Papa Escalona isn't pleased. Mark explains that Rudy had a massive hemorrhage, which damaged the part of the brain that controls the heart. "You said you could fix it," chokes Papa. Patiently, Mark explains that it all happened too quickly, and all the drugs and resuscitation techniques they've tried have failed spectacularly. "Do you want to say goodbye before we stop?" he inquires gently. Papa, upset, accepts his son's fate and inches inside the trauma room. Jorge is more reluctant, but his face is frozen in a mask of vacancy. I totally don't care about him. Rudy's been a more endearing actor, and his part has consisted of babbling two sentences and then lying on a board with his eyes closed. "You fought hard, Rudy," Papa blubbers. "I'm proud of you." The man rubs his son's buzz-cut head and collapses against it, sobs shuddering through his body. "We love you, mijo," he weeps, using the contracted form of mi hijo, or "my son." Jorge tenses visibly. "Shut up!" he shouts. "Shut up, shut up! Can you hear me? Shut up!" He storms out of the trauma room, leaving his crying father alone with his grief. Well, alone but for Gallant and Lily, who obediently keep up with compressions and pumping oxygen into Rudy's body. "Let us know when you want us to stop," Mark says, leaving after this egregious misuse of the royal "us." I swear Gallant gives him a look that indicates he agrees with me, and that Mark is a big ol' delegating slacker, but perhaps I'm fantasizing again.