In a supply area, Abby fiddles absently with a bottle of medication. Susan appears to swab her ear. "I don't know why I bought hoops," Susan grumbles. "They were cute," Abby suggests. "The three-year old in [Exam] Four thought so, too," Susan complains. Ouch. After a pregnant pause, Abby asks, "Did you think it was going to happen so soon?" Susan sighs that Mark had stopped treatment, so it stood to reason he'd kick off expediently. "I know, but still, he was just here working," Abby marvels. "I keep expecting to see him walk around a corner or something." Susan clears her throat and vomits up a Death is Hell platitude: "He was thirty-eight years old -- too soon by any calculation." Oh, Susan, your thoughts are so deep. Hee, I was going to say "weighty," but given the uproar months ago about her size, I held back. Abby says that her shift is over, but she doesn't feel like going home just yet. "What do you say we go out and get plastered?" Susan grins. Abby laughs. "I'd say that's an appropriate response," she smiles. And with that, her will power hops a plane to Tahiti and never looks back.

Weaver enters to tell Susan something about a patient; Susan exposits that she's almost done, and that Carter will be on for a few more hours to handle anything else that comes up. Pause. "I'm sorry about Mark," Weaver says sincerely, and with some difficulty. "Yeah," nods Susan, still emotionless and chilly. And impolite. Why are people on TV so rude? Maybe Susan agrees with me, because as her boss walks away, Susan gets an epiphany and calls out an invitation to the Lava Lounge to get slammed. Does every city have a Lava Lounge? Is that some kind of rule, just like the one that states every city must have a Cesar Chavez Street? Weaver awkwardly thanks her, but says she can't come. She isn't convincing. "Sure you can," Susan says. "I have other plans, but thanks anyway," Weaver chokes, fleeing.