Ted was sent off.

Adam took Joe to get a CT scan.

"So, how's it look?" Joe asked, staring nervously at Adam as he studied the CT images.

"You'll need to be admitted. Tomorrow, when Dr. Shephard gets here…" Adam started, but Joe cut him off before he could finish.

"Just tell me straight up. I trust your diagnosis," Joe said, his face pale as a ghost.

In the U.S., not every condition gets you a hospital bed. To keep things efficient and profitable, hospitals here push you out as soon as they can. If you don't have to be admitted, you won't be. Even after surgery, they'll give you a couple days to recover, then it's "see ya later." Barney should've been discharged ages ago, but he was in a VIP room, shelling out big bucks daily, so the hospital wasn't exactly rushing him out the door.

Joe knew how pricey a hospital stay could get, but right now, money was the last thing on his mind. All he could think about was what being admitted meant.

"From the CT, it looks like the artery at the base of your skull is ballooning out—a subarachnoid hemorrhage from a pretty massive aneurysm. Surgery's going to be tricky," Adam explained. "But don't freak out just yet. Dr. Shephard's one of the best in the game. I'm sure he'll come up with a solid plan."

Joe sat there, stunned, for what felt like forever before croaking out, "How much is this gonna cost?"

"No clue," Adam said with a shake of his head. "We don't even have a surgical plan yet, so there's no way to estimate it. Even once we do, costs can shift until the surgery's done. You know how it goes."

In the U.S., treatment comes first. You don't see the bill until about two months after you're discharged. That's when the real fun begins—a moment that's basically "heaven one second, hell the next." The hospital sends you a tab covering every little thing from your stay, and it's often way beyond what you'd braced yourself for.

Say you figure it'll be a big hit—maybe tens of thousands of dollars—and you mentally prep for a max of, like, a hundred grand. Then the bill arrives. It's not tens of thousands. It's not even a hundred thousand. It's not even a few hundred thousand. It's over a million.

Surprise!

Shocked yet?

For someone with shaky health or a weak stomach, that bill alone might trigger a stroke or brain bleed. The average American, pulling in maybe thirty-something grand a year and living paycheck to paycheck, suddenly has to face a million-dollar debt dropped out of nowhere. Without eating or drinking a dime, it'd take thirty or forty years to pay off. Even if you stretch it out—say, twenty grand a year—it's still over fifty years. Picture an eighty-year-old guy delivering packages, still chipping away at that bill.

Can't pay? Oh, the hospital's definitely suing you. They'll strip you down to nothing, tank your credit, and basically exile you from society. It's a wild ride you've got zero control over. If you want to live—if you agree to treatment—you're stuck playing by their rules. CT scan? You're getting it. MRI? Done. Some minor procedure first? Yup, that too.

"Don't stress too much," Adam said, trying to lighten the mood. "Look on the bright side—this isn't some mystery illness. You don't need to trek over to Princeton's hospital to see Dr. House."

"That's… actually good news," Joe said with a bitter laugh.

He'd heard the legends about Dr. House next door. That guy tackled weird, unsolvable cases by running endless tests and throwing experimental drugs at you. Before he even nailed down a diagnosis, you'd have to survive his razor-sharp tongue and a gauntlet of procedures. Sometimes your condition hadn't even worsened yet, but House's meddling would knock you half-dead anyway. Some of those tests were invasive, and the drugs? Permanent damage, no take-backs.

If you were lucky enough to get cured and sent home, you'd still be stuck with lingering side effects—and then that monstrous bill would hit, making you wonder if it'd been better to just check out early. And if you ever replayed House's snarky attitude in your head, you or your family might be tempted to take him out first. Honestly, the fact that House was still kicking after all these years was a miracle.

So yeah, getting a clear diagnosis—even something like cancer—was better than being stuck with an undiagnosed mess.

Seeing Joe's condition was stable for now, with no signs of worsening, Adam got him admitted and stuck around to keep an eye on him overnight. The aneurysm was huge and in a lousy spot—almost impossible to clip. That was the biggest hurdle for surgery.

Adam could only think of one cutting-edge option: a "stillness surgery." Cool Joe's body down, stop his heart, drain his blood, put him in a fake-death state. With no blood flowing to the brain, the aneurysm's rupture risk would drop to nearly zero. Finish the surgery in under forty-five minutes, restart the heart, and boom—success.

It'd be Dr. Shephard leading the charge, but he'd probably call in Dr. Burke to handle the heart and blood-draining part. With Meredith currently at odds with Shephard, and Cristina—fresh off Burke's "one-shot wonder"—still recovering, Adam figured no one was likely to steal this surgery from him.

Yeah, it felt a little shady to admit, but he was pretty pumped. This was a doctor chasing the thrill of mastering their craft. Besides, he and Joe were barely acquaintances—not even friends, really.

The next morning, Adam was ready to roll, prepped to assist Dr. Shephard with Joe's evaluation. But Shephard hadn't shown up yet. Instead, someone Adam wasn't thrilled to see walked in.

"Cristina? What are you doing here?"

"I'm fine now, so obviously I'm back to work," Cristina said with a smirk that wasn't quite a smile. "What's this? You're not happy to see me? Got a juicy surgery lined up or something?"

"Did you tell Burke?" Adam asked, keeping his tone casual. "You should probably clear that up with him."

Cristina's face darkened for a second. But she was a razor-sharp genius—she snapped out of it fast, grinning. "I'll go talk to Burke right now. Let's see what surgery's got you so worked up. Oh, and don't get me wrong—I'm grateful for you, but I'm not passing up a good case."

With that, she spun around and headed for Burke's office.

"No backdoor deals, okay? Fair fight!" Adam called after her, half-joking.

This kind of cutting-edge, multi-doctor surgery needed skill and speed. Leonard, Adam's ideal pick, was solid on technique but couldn't match Burke's prime-of-life pace. If they needed a cardiothoracic expert, even with some tension over the interim surgical chief gig, Shephard would probably still pick Burke.

And if Burke was in, Adam's edge took a hit. Sure, he had a favor owed from Burke, but that didn't stack up to Cristina's "girlfriend" card. At least Meredith wouldn't be stirring the pot this time, and Adam still had Shephard's goodwill. Plus, he was Joe's admitting doc and the top intern in the game.

His odds were still better than Cristina's.

Yup, advantage is mine.