We come back to see Gallant, looking very much like he wants to throw something, sitting down and chatting with a guilty-looking Valerie. "How many times has he been over here?" Gallant asks, crabby. Valerie seems aware that there's no right answer to this question, because even if she says, "This was the first time," nothing can change the fact that Pratt banged her drum and Gallant's rabidly anti-percussion. "Just a few," Valerie manages. "Now I know why you were so interested in my schedule," Gallant hisses. Pratt coasts out of the bathroom and blithely asks if there's any coffee. Gallant's expression is, "Oh, how rude of me not to offer you some caffeine to get you through the day because you stayed awake all night pounding my sister. Want some condoms, too? Lube? The use of my fuck-swing?" Pratt shrugs that he's on the clock, so he should go, and leans in to kiss Valerie; just as she pulls away a bit, Pratt sees Gallant staring daggers into his heart, and instead takes rapid leave. Irritated, Gallant asks Valerie when her plane leaves. She says it leaves at 2. "Wake me up at noon," he says, stalking off. Wow. I know Pratt's oily and smarmy, but Gallant has got to relax. They're twins -- they share genes, not genitals. Let her use her vagina as she sees fit.

A frustrated Abby slides up to the counter next to Luka and shoots him a frazzled expression. "I thought you were off," he says. "Not until she balances her narc count," calls out an eavesdropping Weaver. Abby hides her furious look and continues her pissed-off flounce toward the drug lock-up. Were this a soap opera, I'd expect Weaver to turn up murdered in another three episodes -- just enough time for other characters to be like, "I'd like to kill Weaver," and "Weaver is dead...wrong! Dead wrong. Yes."

"January 18," Luka says. Weaver shakes her head. "Forget it. I already have two Attendings requesting Super Bowl Sunday off," she says. Luka corrects her that he doesn't necessarily want the day off, so much as he's going to quit that day and head back to Africa. She's startled that he wants to go back, but before he unspools another winning oratory about the soul-cleansing benefits of sweating in the Congo, they're interrupted by the sound of the producers throwing Chuny a bone. One that isn't Luka's. She shouts that a Mrs. Webster pulled out her Foley catheter, and Weaver exposits that the woman's a heart patient with some dementia who needs treatment of the medical variety that always flies right over my head. Luka swings the subject back to his resignation; Weaver asks him to write it up and leave the letter on her desk so that she can present it to the administration. "For the record, we need you here as much as they do there," Weaver says plainly.