Officiously sweeping into Toe Boy's room, Carter seats himself at the wounded toe and prepares to resume treatment. Toe Boy isn't impressed that he's waited so long for toe treatment, and Carter explains that all the stoned hooligans are complicating ER patient flow that particular night. "It's not my fault!" protests Toe Boy. "Are you saying it's mine?" Carter counters. Toe Boy ponders this. "I'm just saying you guys need more doctors," he pouts. Carter stares at him with a wry grin and looks about to play the "You Don't Know Shit About My Day" game, but Malik interrupts. He's got Vincent Newberry's mother. "Who?" Carter asks. Apparently, she birthed Metalhead. "You don't even know his name?" sputters Toe Boy. "He almost died!" Carter: "I saved him." Toe Boy: "Do you even know my name? What kind of doctor are you?" Carter guides Mrs. Metalhead to a more remote corner and reassures her that her son is intubated and not comatose. "It's that liquid G junk, isn't it?" she says, wringing her hands. "I told him to stay away from the stuff!" Suddenly, her nose starts bleeding, which she ascribes to tension. Carter calmly sits her down, chalks up one more patient on his mental roster, and helps her stem the ride.

Paul's brother, who the closed-captioners thoughtfully name "Glenn," frets that he should be with Paul if he's having a heart attack, but he's told to give the doctors room to do their work without scrutiny. Chen charges into the OR to see whether Malucci needs assistance. He gives her a brief bullet: twenty-seven-year-old man, acute MI, possibly a cocaine user. He is ready to push TNK. Chen asks whether he sent a tox screen; Malucci says he did, but frets that Paul is "killing myocardial cells while we wait." He offhandedly hangs up Paul's chest x-rays, then clarifies that Paul's had no recent surgery, and that blood draws indicate no disorders in that department. "What about the cath lab?" Chen queries. Malucci argues that they can't wait the two hours it will take for those tests to be processed. Briefly, Chen starts to founder. "Where's Weaver?" she frets. Despite repeated pagings, Haleh can't locate her. "Do you want to wait for him to arrest?" pressures Malucci. This seems unfair. Granted, Chen is hedging like a seasoned horticulturalist, but mockery and condescension are the surest paths to misdiagnosis. Chen briefly furrows her brow and looks desperate for a miracle that might suck her out of this mortal coil. None comes, so she sighs, "Yeah, okay, do it." As Dr. Dave discusses the next treatment options, Chen grabs the just-in toxicology results. "Cocaine, right?" Malucci smarms. Wrong! He's clear of that and there's no traces of amphetamines, either. Malucci tries to justify his initial instinct by claiming that Paul's probably on drugs, but took them too recently for them to have shown up in a drug screen. Dude, let it go. He's not a coke fiend. Chen asks whether he did a lipid panel, and Malucci suggests that they add it onto the slew of other tests they'll perform. Beeping interrupts the discussion. "We've got V-tach," Haleh states. Paul has no pulse, so Chen calls for the magic paddles and an amp of epi -- epinephrine, I assume -- to jolt the heart. Dave looks up and grimly growls, "It's too early for reperfusion arrhythmia." Erik Palladino is definitely trying to milk these scenes. Haleh just looks at him, vague disapproval on her face, as Chen shocks him. There's no response, so she bumps it up to 300 while Malucci compresses again. "Clear!" Chen shouts.