Carter tries to figure out where he can bunk the guitarist. Two punk chicks, Harmony and Dianna, peer nervously through the glass; Harmony -- a blonde with spiky hair and heavy makeup -- is the guy's girlfriend, and Dianna -- pierced and dark-haired and spacey -- is her druggie pal. The actress who plays Dianna, incidentally, starred in my boss's movie, The Fluffer. No, not Wing Chun and Sars; my other boss, from whom I now expect a healthy raise. Dianna gets up in Carter's face begging for information about the musician. "Tell her he's all good," she demands. "He's all good," Carter obliges. Harmony, however, is experiencing anything but. "I saw him stop breathing!" she panics. "You don't just stop breathing!" Carter reassures her that they're helping her boyfriend breathe, but that he'll be conked out for several hours on account of the alcohol-GHB cocktail he ingested. "Are those blood stains?" Dianna asks wonderingly, staring at rust-colored splotches on the ceiling. Carter tries to shut her up, but she's fixated on the idea of dead bodies lingering and bleeding out just one floor up from her face. And that is a sexy concept...if you're high. And crazy. And dumb as a fingernail. Harmony is having trouble breathing, though, and admits to an asthma problem. "Are you on something?" Carter quizzes her. "A little acid," Dianna replies, fondling an IV bag. "I'm not talking to you," spits Carter. Harmony insists she's clean, but Carter is still concerned and tells Haleh to have someone work Harmony up for an endocarditis. "Someone...as in you?" she sasses.

Benton sprints into the Saint Rafe's ER. There is a giant statue of the saint standing across from reception, looming over Benton's shoulder. I had to look up saints' names before realizing "Rafe" is just colloquial shorthand for Raphael, the patron saint of healers. Sorry, Mom. The receptionist tarries while she wraps up a phone call; during that time, Peter peers down the hallway and spots Reese sitting up on a gurney, a small portion of his head bandaged. He runs over to ask Reese what happened, and a nurse notices; she can't field his questions about seatbelts and car seats, so she sputters that she'll find the doctor. This requires little more than pointing to the woman hovering behind Benton's shoulder. "Julia Scoft," she says. "So the police found you?...One of our nurses thought there was a Benton at County with a deaf son." The medical grapevine is a quick one. Scoft explains that Carla and Reese were in a single motor-vehicle accident, in which "[his] wife" swerved to avoid hitting....Well, we never find out, because Benton would rather correct the doctor's assumption about their marriage than find out what actually happened. Scoft pulls back a millimeter and clams up, insisting that she must speak with a relative first. Considering he's a doctor, I doubt her evasive tactics are fooling him. He knows Carla is toast; he read about it on Mr. Showbiz.