Dr. Gudat is profusely apologizing to T-Bag in advance of the operation. T-Bag snarls, "My hand has been in that box for hours now. It is dying." Dr. Gudat pleads, "Sir, I am not capable of doing this!" Not if T-Bag wants his hand reattached, he's not. But if he'd be willing to consider a retriever's paw, or maybe a hoof, then they're in business. T-Bag waves around his Phillips-head screwdriver and says, "I only have one hand. I can stick that in your neck before you get to the door. If that's not incentive enough for you, I see that you have a Missus Gudat out there. With a name like that in a county like this, old Missus Gudat would not be too hard to find now, would she?" Again, let us ponder how amazing it is that T-Bag, even having lost about six gallons of blood, is still capable of shrewder strategic thinking than Veronica, who is full up on O-positive. Dr. Gudat finally concurs with, "I can promise you nothing." "Story of my life," T-Bag hisses. But when Dr. Gudat goes to put T-Bag under, the unidextrous felon decides that would be a bad idea. Dr. Gudat protests, "I have to cut away dead flesh! Nobody can undergo a procedure like this without an anesthetic." T-Bag grabs him close and grits out, "I. Ain't. Nobody."

Mahone is busy studying another tattoo shot -- this one's of the segment that reads "11121147" then "Allen" then "Schweitzer." Ives comes in and tells Mahone that Schweitzer was the name of the plumbing company that made the toilet Scofield took off in his cell, and an Allen bolt was the fitting. Mahone muses, "It's all here, isn't it? It's amazing." The two then move on to the segment reading "Ripe Chance Woods." They start brainstorming over whether there's a nearby place with that name when a third agent comes over and tells them the Department of Corrections is moving in on a self-storage unit in Oswego. Everyone scampers off.