Back at the haaaaaaaaaaaaunted hooooooooooooooospital where little dead girls dwell in elevator shafts and catheter tubes spontaneously turn into the tails of witches, we rejoin the comedy team of Stegman and James, already in progress. Steg angrily insists there by consequences for Hook's insubordination, but Hook won't be hearing any of it because his ear canals are stuffed with ghosts! Because of the haunted, um, thing. But instead of offering linear explanations for his protection of Hook (because that would be so passé and, like, the way people talk, and who wants that?), Dr. James walks around his desk and sits next to Stegman, holding up a button showing a cartoon doctor with a sun rising behind him and emblazoned with the words "Operation Morning Air." I totally want that button. Begley (calling him "Dr. James" with a straight face was starting to give me carpal tunnel, and Begley's always playing some version of himself, so…) asks Steg if he likes said button, and Stegman -- he's so surly! -- deadpans, "No." Begley responds as if kicked a long time ago on the soft part of his head, "Good. Good." Stegman tries in vain (haunted veins!) to return to a more strict line of "and then you talk, and then I talk, and that's how you make a conversation!" conversation with the decreasingly responsive Begley, as he argues that Mrs. Druse has been admitted to the hospital fourteen times in the last two years. Fourteen. Like, as in the age of consent in one or more of the Dakotas. Fourteen! He's very passionate about it. Begley tosses off an airy, "It must be terrible to be so ill." You know what else is a very good song? "Hackensack." Depressing as hell, but the words were written for me and me alone. If you can make it through the lines "Sometimes I wonder where you are, probably in L.A. / That seems to be where everybody else ends up these days" without quietly informing your empty car, "Yeah, don't I know it," you probably don't know anyone who's moved to L.A.