Elsewhere, Mark's just finished intubating another patient, backed up by Elizabeth. She asks Mark whether he knows how the fire started, and he says he thinks someone kicked over a space heater while running out of the basement and ignited some paint thinner. Blah blah jargon blah. Elizabeth calls for a chest CT and tells them to move the patient. Malik stops her, and says that the patient's "crit's low at thirty-one." Elizabeth stops like a deer caught in headlights. Everyone pauses, waiting for her answer. Mark prompts her, "Do you want to take him up to the OR?" in case she's forgotten what she used to do in this situation. Elizabeth babbles, "No, I don't want to cut him open if I don't have to. It could just be an intercostal artery." Malik and Mark both stare back silently, doubting her as hard as they can. Elizabeth throws up her hands and relents, "Fine, fine. We'll do a transesophageal echo." They head for the OR.
The camera pans by, catching Lisa as she carries Araceli in to see Watts. Mother and daughter cry and reach out for each other. Lisa tells Dr. Dave that Araceli is basically okay, and Dr. Dave passes on the information to Watts. Weaver tells Lisa to go, and Dr. Dave adds that Watts wants Lisa to take care of Araceli. Weaver guardedly watches Watts's face.
Carter and Benton still can't control their patient, who's flailing about and yelling. Carter calls out his stats, and Benton instructs him to "push some Versed." "What?" Carter demurs. (Second base.) Benton tells him it's right in front of him, and indeed it is -- on a stand, oh so close to Carter's hand, smelling just like sweet, sweet candy. Carter tells Benton he's not allowed to administer it. Benton yells even louder, but Carter holds his ground, and then rushes into Watts's trauma room and tells Dr. Dave to go push some Versed for Benton. Dr. Dave says he's busy, and Carter repeats the order and says he'll take over for Dr. Dave. They bicker for a moment, and then Weaver sends Dr. Dave in to help with Benton's trauma. Watts starts crashing, and they shock her a few times.
In the OR, the patient is prepped for surgery, but Elizabeth's still delaying the surgery as long as she possibly can by performing an ultrasound on his chest, claiming that she "can't isolate the aorta." Dr. Babcock, the anaesthesiologist who's rapidly becoming my favourite character on the show, tells Elizabeth she has to start now. "Not blind, I don't," she snaps, and then, watching the ultrasound screen, hisses, "Come on. Come on!" Finally she sees something and yells, "Okay, there! There's extraluminal fluid -- he's torn his aorta." "No kidding," snorts Dr. Babcock. Dr. Babcock? Marry me. Elizabeth flares her nostrils in a particularly Dawsonian display of impotent, adolescent rage, and tells a nurse to set up a thoracotomy tray. Everyone stares at Elizabeth and broadcasts their collective disdain of her ability to complete this job. Elizabeth also tells them to "call the perfusionist," and says she'll scrub in. "Scrub fast," drawls Dr. Babcock. A nurse asks her how much blood she'll need, and Elizabeth answers, "Eight more units, type-specific."