We fade up, of course, at Gene's Cinnabon in Omaha, where a sink is overflowing; a spilled coffee is dripping; looky-loos are peering over the sneeze guard; and Gene is out like a light with an icing spatula buried in his sideburn…almost like he fell asleep in the midst of getting made up, or gluing on a disguise.

The Ink Spots croon "We Three (My Echo, My Shadow And Me)" as EMTs remove the spatula, roll Gene over onto his back, and put an oxygen mask over his face. He's wheeled out and through the mall, and he anxiously cranes his neck to see who's watching. The Ink Spots wonder plaintively, "Where is the one I love?" as Gene is taken outside and into a very bright light…

…which dissolves soon enough to the ER, where Gene glumly submits to a battery of tests. "We three, we're all alone." Later, he half-sits up and squints nervously at a police officer who's kibitzing at the front desk, before getting startled by the abrupt entrance of his doctor. "You were right" that it wasn't a heart attack, he's told; in fact, everything looks good, except for an elevated blood-pressure reading that makes sense "under the circumstances."

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