Fitch sits in a room chair, curled sideways like a boy, reminiscing with Mrs. Scheinhorn about his childhood. He tried to change his name in fifth grade, he says, because the A-K kids in homeroom were so mean about his Tourette's and OCD and lesbian moms. She grins at him, shaking her head. "Well really, Fitch. Do you honestly think the L-Z kids would have been any nicer?" He shakes his head. But that wasn't the only reason he wanted to change it. "Paging Dr. Scheinhorn, Dr. Scheinhorn to the OR..." he says, and they laugh. It's what Mrs. Cooper says, what she's always said, making fun of Leslie; he wanted to be the doctor she was paging, to make her joke real.
"Cooper is a much better name," Mrs. Scheinhorn says, and he looks down, suddenly a boy. "Yeah, but I liked you better." She tells him to stop. "I taught you to drive stick, I let you stay up late? So what?" So she was a better cook too, he says, and sewed his buttons back on. And took him to Duran Duran. "I love you more, embrace it!" He's only kidding; he's not kidding at all. It's tremendous pressure on them both, but Mrs. Cooper -- sleeping just over there in the bed, a few feet away -- knows it's for their own good.
Mrs. Scheinhorn explains that she was more fun because Mrs. Cooper wanted them to bond, and gave her all the fun stuff. "She gets the credit, not me." And besides, she says taking his hand, "It worked. Here we are." From the bed comes the quavering, quiet voice of Mrs. Cooper as she wakes. "Paging Dr. Scheinhorn, Dr. Scheinhorn to the ER..." They both respond.
All gone, they tell her. All news is good. "And where is the little fucker?" she asks, getting stronger and more wakeful. They point to the jar. "Oh. For all the pain it sure as hell doesn't look like much. Exact same thing I said when they cut the cord, and put you in my arms." It's for his own good, still. It's so they'll bond. He smiles, because this is how Mrs. Cooper speaks to him, and it means she's feeling better; Mrs. Scheinhorn's heard it before.