Carter's little girl has opened her eyes. As he smiles happily at her, he hears distant screaming. Turning around, confused, he sees Turner atop The Blue Banger, wailing on him with a scalpel. Frantically, he bolts in there and takes a flying leap, tackling Turner to the ground. Amid the thrashing, Turner clips Carter in the shoulder with the scalpel. Carter glares angrily at him, then leaps up to check on the gang kid, who's now got a lovely collection of slits on his chest. If you connect them with a Sharpie, you get Donald Duck.
Night. Pratt has resumed trying to save young Turner, whose heart isn't beating. That afternoon, Carter screams for Security, but Turner has already bolted. In front of Pratt, Turner flatlines, just as we see Carter run into the hall after the sprinting kid. "Time of death, 00:28," Pratt says melodramatically, as we see Carter stare after the boy, who escapes from the hospital in slow motion and knocks over a cart for good measure. We fade to black feeling kind of sorry for his mother's wig, which a week ago had two sons and now has none, unless there's a few hiding under there.
As Romano gets wheeled into the operating room, he does that whole crazy "Heyyyy, I'm a patient now" thing where his eyes flicker around and he hears voices as distant echoes. If the show gives him glasses and a spine-ectomy, his transformation into Mark will be nearly complete. Shirley's face appears over the gurney to ask how he's doing. "Never better," Romano says through his teeth. They scoot him onto the operating table, and when they do it, his gown rides up a little. A thousand fanfics are born. He asks who's scrubbing in to assist, and is displeased to hear it's a third-year resident, because all students are jackasses. Romano shivers and is startled to hear that the table is freezing cold. God, if he sprouts anything warm and/or fuzzy on his heart as a result of this experience, I'm going to need some anti-trite medication. "Where's Corday?" he asks impatiently. "I thought she was scrubbing in." Shirley offers to page her in the ER, where she was spied covering a patient, but Romano would rather not act like a ten-year-old with a crush, so he says no. He's got a clip on the finger of his dead arm; I think it's the apparatus they use to take your pulse ox, but I could be wrong; either way, it should be on the arm that's not getting lopped off, and Romano tensely points this out. Shirley's like, Oops, hee, whoops, and Romano's like, If this goddamn arm worked, my middle finger would be romancing your nostrils with a quickness. Then he counts back from ten and succumbs to the anesthesia.