Elizabeth charges out of a trauma room and bleats at Carter, "They just keep getting younger, don't they?" She's frustrated at the gang shootings. Carter gets waylaid by the guy who's desperate for Demerol; he's now in a bed, and still wailing. Carter still ignores him.
The nun Zuin-an lies in her quiet sanctuary. She's sleeping. "She says it won't be long," Kito says. "She might be right," Carter says, unaware that the nuns are always right on shows like this, especially when they're unconscious. Kito says that some well-wishers are en route from the temple. Carter backs away, but Kito is feeling the urge to wax loquacious, so she tells the story of how she became devoted to Zuin-an. "She has a gift -- she can see inside of people. She saw inside of me," Kito says. "She was imprisoned for demonstrating for human rights in North Korea, and I was imprisoned for...other things. She saved me. I took it on myself to serve her purpose, but now as I watch her embrace her death and rebirth, I truly understand [that] only through our own acceptance do we realize our purpose." Carter stands there, silent, pretty sure his purpose here is to stand there silently.
Here, the editor intercuts Carter and Pratt treating a string of patients, most of whom are intended as comic relief. Like the woman who acts like a germophobe, or the fat woman who ate a pie. Ha! Fat people! Hi-LAR-ious! Things that are round are silly! Only two patients seem to matter: One, Mr. Dressler, is an overweight man who's been trying to right his ship, but thinks he's in the early throes of a heart attack. The other is Pain Man, who drools to Carter about his pain and how Demerol is the sweetest elixir in the world. Carter crabbily agrees to give him a dose, then flags his chart. The man introduces himself as "Dean -- John Dean."
Cut to the same man telling Pratt that his name is "Haldeman -- Bob Haldeman," and he'd like his Demerol shaken, not stirred. His new story involves back pain and an absent chiropractor, and he snags both another dose of Demerol and another flagged chart, because Pratt isn't buying his song and dance but seems okay with shooting him up anyway. As Pratt and Abby stalk away, shaking their heads, Abby whispers that Mr. Johnson made a biscuit. I love biscuits! Except this biscuit is apparently a turd left on a gurney, which isn't the way I remember the Pillsbury Dough-Boy making them, although maybe I'm just not watching commercials on the right channels. "Jerry, what's the County-to-Northwestern biscuit ratio?" Pratt asks cheerfully. "Oh, eight to one," Jerry decides. "Odds in my favor, baby," grins Pratt. On his way out to meet another gang-banger with a bullet in his body, Pratt passes an old man clutching at his chest who claims a nurse told him to hang out down there. Pratt promises to get to him, and rushes straight past him for a more glamorous trauma.