When we return to the here-and-now -- well, as here-and-now as 1973 can be -- Sam is smiling. And the people in 2008 who are turning off his life support have noticed, too. So has Johnny, who looks quite pointedly at his brother. See? Dr. Schwan left a little bit of brain in there. This heart-warming moment featuring the redemptive power of love, however, is cut short when Hunt and Skelton burst onto the scene, guns drawn and ready to fire. A panicked Michael trains his gun on those two, while Carling and Detective Whose Name I Don't Know and Don't Care to Learn Apparently charge him from behind. Before they can reach him, Michael fires and Hunt crumples to the ground. Well, at least you didn't die, Sam. That's a positive, right? Turns out Hunt isn't going to die, either -- Michael's shot hit his flask. "What are the chances?" a relieved Carling exclaims. "Actually," Hunt says, sitting up, "pretty good." He pulls another flask out of his coat pocket. And one more out of his side pocket. Let's end this scene, before he reaches down into his pants and produces some sangria.

Outside the hospital, Cat Stevens starts singing about how Tuesday's dead, which is fitting, because so is that orderly who got shot earlier. "I was supposed to die at two," a shaken Sam tells Annie. "Now he's dead. And I'm alive." Sounds like a net gain for you then. "You're alive, Sam," Annie reminds him. "Can't you let it go?" Sam decides to give it a shot.

The detectives of the 125 have retired to a local watering hole to celebrate the minimal loss of human life; Sam still looks decidedly mopey. Hey, if it's any consolation, Carling's sorry he almost got Sam shot up by snipers. Well, not really -- Hunt made him apologize. "You know, you don't have to treat the 'crazy' cop with kid gloves," Sam huffs. "Good," Carling retorts. "Because I ain't that sorry, and I still think you're a meatball." Oh, just kiss already. Hunt looks like he has something on his mind: "You know, Tyler... you're not so special. We all go crazy at some point. It happens to every cop who gives a crap about what he does. That's why we're alcoholics. That's why our women leave us. We're broken toys. What makes us different from those folks in the Psych Ward... we keep each other sane. That's what it's all about. Any decent precinct house... we keep each other sane." "After all," Carling adds, "we're an American band." On that note, maybe we should get out of here.