Then it's later, and Zoey's looking at the patient's chart: She has a DNR. Jackie nods, tells her what to do, and she heads off; Jackie calls out softly: "Oh, and she's gonna hate the mask, keep it on her." That kind of thing, you know? The contingencies; already knowing nine out of ten how they're going to react in every situation. That's what makes her great at this, but it's also what makes it so hard to get through: She's smarter than everybody on earth, which is great until you're in a place where it means she's smarter than you.

"Hey, Lucille, you feeling crummy?" Cooper looks down at her lovingly, indulgently, and she draws a painful breath, moaning in embarrassment. Jackie watches, carefully. "Don't look at me, Dr. Cooper!" Lucille wheezes. "I didn't get a chance to put my eyebrows on..." He holds her hand, and smiles warmly down. "You're beautiful." He asks her to put the mask on, so she can get her treatment and go home, but that will mean he goes away.

The only good thing about Lucille Marinovich's illness, which is her whole life now, which is to say the only good thing about her life, is Fitch Cooper twice a week. (Which is twice what we get, at best, so shut it, Lucille.) She changes the subject, hoping her advanced age and inability to breathe will cover such an obvious maneuver: "We... had orange roughy for dinner last night." You can almost feel her toes curling: WTF's she even talking about, orange roughy, seriously, anything to keep him where she can see him, get his agreement or his indulgence or whatever, to communicate. He nods, making approving noises. "...It's a mild fish."

Coop agrees easily -- orange roughy is a mild fish -- fixing her wig without thinking, pushing locks beneath it, a face to meet the faces that you meet, and she moans again. "Now you know I wear a wig!" she whisper-shouts in horror, and he bucktooths a smile at her, stumbling: "But I... didn't know till just this minute?" He bops her nose for good measure. It wouldn't matter. It's not about getting close to them, that's not why Jackie watches this so intently, and prays Zoey's paying attention: it's not about getting close to them, it's about making sure they don't feel alone. It's about balancing your real life, your in-the-head life, your responsibilities, with this very simple need. The more distracted he feels and doesn't show her, that's what Jackie's looking for. He passes, and well. He promises to come back, and mock-orders her to put the mask on, and Jackie heads up to the cubes, asking if Zoey's good. "I'm good," she says, sounding both grateful and competent.