Another doctor comes in and asks what we got, and he sees the metal and wants to know what it is. "Piece of the steering column," says an arriving Dr. Jack Sheppard, who is wearing what appears to be a muskrat on his head. It is fortunately quickly covered up by his little doctor's cap. He asks someone if his daddy has been paged, and is told he has been. "Her tire blew, car jumped the divider," says the paramedic, "went head-on with an SUV." She was driving, had no ID? I sincerely hope she gets ticketed. Unless of course the lack of ID is just because we're not supposed to have already figured out that this woman is going to turn out to be Jack's future wife. A nurse shouts out that PresumablySarah's blood pressure is dropping, and Jack says it's because her (something)'s pierced, and I guess the closed captioner couldn't make it out either, as it's not in the subtitles. Jack asks about the other driver, who it turns out is being wheeled in right now. "Adam Rutherford, 57, chest trauma, no breath sounds," yells the paramedic.
Jack tells the other resident, who we'll call Dr. Useless, to "tube Mr. Rutherford," but Dr. Useless says he can't, that Dr. Jack has to. Can't Dr. Useless even just give it a try? Look, I own a Great Dane. And lots of Great Dane owners have an intubation kit at home because that breed is prone to bloating, and the dog can die really quickly from it. And I know a person is a more important organism than a dog and all that, but it seems to me that if "not breathing" guarantees death then maybe, just maybe, the resident can at least give it a shot (and that's without figuring that intubation has to be one of the skills a resident would have to possess before spending time in the ER). A nurse yells out that PresumablySarah's blood pressure is 80 over 60. Someone else from Rutherford's side says, "His breathing is deteriorating." Dr. Jack glances over. All he needs now is Jack Bauer pointing a gun at him and making the decision on who to work on for him. But he makes his choice, and continues to work on PresumablySarah. Those of you who want to condemn him for making that choice are kidding yourselves if you don't think doctors aren't faced with similar decisions every single day in emergency rooms across the country. What do you think triage is?
Anyway, Dr. Jack orders up a syringe and yanks the steering column out of PresumablySarah's chest, while her worsening blood pressure is being updated by the nurse. Also, there's no "radial pressure," and Jack says he knows, because the "sac's flooded." And he uses the syringe to draw the fluid out of the sac, I guess. Her BP starts to stabilize. Rutherford's not so lucky. We hear his monitor flatline as someone on the other side says, "Time of death, 8:15 AM." You guys didn't even try a defibrillator or anything? Note: If using a defibrillator on someone who is having breathing problems would kill him, don't send me Comic Book Guy emails. I am not a doctor. Jack finishes up a few more things on PresumablySarah while the Rutherford gets ready to be bagged and tagged. "I want to dance…wedding," she croaks out. The nurse tells her to take it easy, while Dr. Useless and Also Hard of Hearing asks what she said. "She said she has to dance at her wedding," says Dr. Jack, with about as much emotion as he might have said, "Time of death, 8:15 AM." We get our first good look at the female, twenties, no ID, and Sarah's status gets upgraded from Presumably to Definitely.