Elizabeth frantically tries to save her patient, the gentle Mrs. Wilson from last week. She calls for some saline, learns Mrs. Wilson's systolic blood pressure is seventy, and decides to change all the IVs and the central lines. "You did that yesterday!" accuses April, Mrs. Wilson's daughter. Calmly, Elizabeth explains that it's necessary to do it again, in case they're the source of the infection. We get a shot of Mrs. Wilson's unconscious face; she's wearing a very glossy, rich, berry-colored lipstick, and her silvery coif is intact. Kidney failure has never looked so attractive. Elizabeth assures April that the failure is reversible, but requires cardiac medications and some dialysis. "Put her on a machine?" squawks April. Elizabeth exposits, for those who don't understand the bean-shaped organ, that the kidneys aren't detoxifying Mrs. Wilson's blood properly. "No, no, if this is her time..." begins April. "It's not," Elizabeth insists. She orders Nurse Jacy to start a dopamine drip. "She's a DNR [Do Not Resuscitate], you know," Jacy points out. April sniffles that her mother never wanted to end up the way her father did, living on machines but not really alive. "I understand," Elizabeth says, still determined to ignore the girl's wishes. "April, her kidney failure is temporary. She could bounce back after treatments. It's worth trying." Carmen watches with interest, jotting down notes on Elizabeth's performance. April is totally dubious. Elizabeth is intense. Mrs. Wilson sits up and reapplies her lipstick. Finally, Elizabeth orders Jacy to call a nephrologist and a dialysis nurse. "You really want to do that?" Jacy disrespects. "Yes. Now," Elizabeth snaps.
A paramedic gives Carter and Abby the bullet on a woman caught in the fire: she jumped from the building holding her daughter, breaking the fall with her own body. "And my legs," moans the woman. Carter assesses that she's got a deformity in her right tib-fib; a fireman limps around the ambulance and promises that he took the woman's daughter -- Eden -- inside, and she's going to be okay. "I'm sorry, I know you wanted me to wait," the mother wails. "Everyone is safe," babbles the fireman. Abby grabs him. "Lean on me," she says. Wrapping an arm around his waist, she props him up, her head fitting right into his armpit for a convenient sweat-shampoo. "I don't want to crush you," he says, favoring one ankle. "That's okay, I'm used to it," Abby metas.