Weaver stares at The Letter as if her breath has been taken from her. She's stunned. Her gob has officially been smacked. Abby creeps up behind her. "Dr. Weaver?" she calls out. No response. She clears her throat. "Dr. Weaver," she states more forcefully. Weaver snaps back into reality. After briefly smacking her lips like a fish, Weaver sputters, "When did you get...?" Abby fills in, "You were at lunch." Weaver shakes her head, dumbfounded that they posted this on the bulletin board, as if that's any less callous than Elizabeth faxing the news of Mark's death. I'm still not over that. It's as if she knew it would mostly be a footnote to their day. Abby tries to engage her, telling her that they've got two patients rolling up from a car accident; Weaver assigns Carter and Lewis to the case without even blinking. "And George cut himself again...." Abby begins. "In a minute," Weaver interrupts her, walking away without even making eye contact. Abby watches her knowingly.
The paramedic leaps out of the ambulance. "Auto versus cement truck," she shouts. Ah, a classic battle. During the crash, a ten-year-old girl in the back seat of the car flew into the front and hit the airbag, apparently; her name is Melissa, and as she's unloaded, Susan greets her kindly and establishes that the girl wasn't knocked unconscious, and that her chest hurts. Her father, a thirty-six-year-old named Dan, got banged up in the driver's seat, and tells Carter that his right leg and throat are in pain. "Has his voice changed?" Carter urgently asks the medic. "Maybe a little," the medic says. I should hope so. It's a bit late for puberty. Dan rasps, "Is my daughter here?"