Gob Bluth paced around the model home's kitchen, getting more and more worried. It was an unusual feeling, and almost had him reaching for his forget-me-now pills. He opened the refrigerator and, upon finding it empty, swore profusely. "I thought Lindsay said she went shopping."

"Well, she didn't," said Buster, poking his head around the corner. Gob jumped. "There's nothing to eat but cheese and mayonnaise. And hot ham water."

"Buster! Didn't–what are you doing there!"

"You can always tell a Milford man," Buster said, holding up his hook with a sort of solemn pride.

"No, I mean, you live at the penthouse."

"Oh. Mom kicked me out."

"Again? Come on."

"As soon as uncle-father Oscar came back…" Buster waved his arms around dramatically. "Anyway, I was hoping you needed an assistant or something for one of your magic tricks."

Gob was a little bit startled to find that he didn't feel like correcting him. "Never mind the illusions. Have you talked to Mom?"

"Yeah, she kicked me out of the house."

"No, I mean about Michael."

"Michael? What happened to Michael?"

Gob ignored him and reached for his cell phone. "It's probably too late already," he grumbled. George Michael had said he looked pretty bad, and that had been a couple hours ago. This, at least, was a familiar feeling. He was through with someone, and now it was time to stop caring about them.

But this wasn't just anyone–it was his younger brother, who'd given him jobs, money, and even his own banana stand.

Who'd stolen his girlfriend, started multiple fights with him, and made him feel like an idiot more times than he could count.

Gob would be fine.

But he still had to head over to the hospital like the rest of the family. The keys to his father's car were on the countertop. He jogged to the front door, Buster running after him. "Wait! What happened to Michael?"

After narrowly avoiding two pedestrians, a car, and a cement truck, Gob swerved into the hospital parking lot as Buster finally stopped screaming. Tobias and Lindsay were getting out of the stair car, which was parked a few spots away.

"My goodness, Gob," came Tobias's booming voice. "If I were still a psychiatrist, I'd say that you were trying to get yourself killed out there."

"If you were still a psychiatrist," snapped Lindsay, "we wouldn't have to live off of mayonnaise and cheese."

"Oh, there's still some hot ham water left over from last night," interrupted Buster.

Gob gritted his teeth. "Never mind that! How's Michael?"

"I don't know," said Tobias as they walked inside. "But I'm sure he'll be fine."

Gob eyed Lindsay, who looked like she was about to swing her purse right at her husband's grinning mouth. "Ugh," he announced, "I'm sick and tired of having to come through for Michael whenever he gets into scrapes like this."

The four Bluths walked towards Lucille and George, who were by the front desk. George Michael was sitting down in a chair nearby, his head in his hands. He looked up as they approached. "Maeby's not with you?"

"Huh?" said Gob, looking at his parents, who hadn't even noticed him. George and one of the doctors were talking in hushed voices. As usual, everything was about Michael.

"She's with Annyong and Oscar at the penthouse," said Lucille. Buster made a face.

"Hey," said Gob, sitting down next to his nephew. "How's your dad doing? Do you know if I can go in?"

"I don't know," moaned George Michael, answering both questions. "They just said that things weren't looking great."

"No one's allowed in. He wouldn't want you, anyway," said George, waving his hand as if brushing off the suggestion. As usual, his father was right.

"I don't want any of you going into his room," said Lucille. "He might have another heart attack. Poor thing. He needs his mother right now."

"But–" started George Michael, who was cut off by a look from his grandmother.

"Don't worry, Mom," said Gob. "We know, don't tell Michael."

Lucille looked stunned. "Why, Gob," she said. "I just want to make sure my son is all right."

Buster squirmed. Gob and Lindsay exchanged glances. "What's the worst she could do?" Gob muttered to his sister. "Wait, don't answer that."

One of the doctors walked over to the Bluths. They turned to him, anxiously waiting for news.

"Wait a second," said Lucille, narrowing her eyes. "It's this doctor again." The Bluths had dealt with this confusing doctor during various hospital stays.

The doctor sighed, saying, "I don't think he's got more than a few hours left with us. I'm sorry."

"Wait," said Lindsay. "You mean he'll be in the hospital for a few hours, right? Then he'll be discharged?"

"No," said the doctor.

The family gaped at him. Gob rose from his chair. "I've got to see him."

"No visitors allowed right now. He's in critical condition."

"But if he's only got a few hours left…"

"Well, if you want, one of you can accompany him to the hospital where he'll be receiving surgery."

"What?"

"He needs a type of surgery we're not equipped to perform here. So in the next few hours, we'll be transferring him to another hospital. I know it's a long delay, but we're woefully understaffed."

Lindsay swore under her breath.

"I'll go with him. I'm his mother."

"But Mother! We were supposed to play Guess the Fur when we got back!" interrupted her youngest son.

"Can't you play with Oscar?"

"Oscar? Isn't he leaving as soon as we get back to watch the kids?" interrupted George.

"Well, they're old enough to stay there by themselves, aren't they?" said George Michael.

"Hmm, well, why don't you go play with Oscar–" he turned to Buster– "and your mother and I will–"

"I'll go," announced Gob. "I'm the head of the family, the president of the company–"

"No, Michael is," said Lindsay.

"Well, now I'll have to step up and take charge in his absence. I mean," he backtracked, "that's what you'll want me to do."

"Let your mother go with Michael," ordered George. "I'll handle the company."

"Dad, you were arrested for fraud. Do you realize how nervous the investors are going to be when they hear you're in charge?" Even Gob was surprised by how much sense he made–although to be fair, he'd stolen the second sentence from Michael.

Tobias laughed. "You sound like Michael."

"The company will be fine," said George Sr. "You all should go home."

They all left, leaving Lucille there alone. Gob dropped his father and youngest brother back at the penthouse, not getting so much as a "thank you" from either as they got out of the car. He ran into his niece, who was leaving the building.

"Hey, Uncle Gob," said Maeby. "You going to the model home? I could use a ride."

"Uh, sure," said Gob. He didn't really know where he was going. His yacht had been repossessed after he'd failed to make payments on it, which was the reason he'd been at the model home in the first place.

Maeby got in and Gob started driving. "How's Uncle Michael? I, um, just heard. From George Michael. On the phone." Maeby was a skilled liar, but anyone who was looking closely would have seen her squirm as she stared at the dashboard. Having said goodbye to Annyong just over a minute ago, it was a hard lie to sell.

Gob wasn't looking closely. "He's fine. Needs surgery."

"Oh."

"Yeah, Mom's going with him."

Gob swerved around the curb, prompting a slew of honking car horns directed at him. "Uncle Gob? I think you're twenty miles over the speed limit."

"Michael was going too fast," muttered Gob. "The project should have taken twenty months, and he was trying to get it done in a year. That's why he had that stupid heart attack."

"If only he hadn't broken Sally Sitwell's heart, huh? He might not be in this situation. Talk about burning a bridge."

Gob turned another corner and saw the model home at the end of the street. The stair car was parked in front–even with two tons of stairs to lug behind them, Lindsay, Tobias and George Michael had beaten him back.

George Michael. Good kid. He hated to admit it, but Michael had done something right there. His nephew used to hang around all the time, watching Gob's magic tricks. He was the only Bluth that seemed to have any kindness to spare. And allergic to lawbreaking behavior. What on Earth had Michael been thinking, letting his family back in his son's life? George Michael might have stood a chance, once. But Michael had to come back. Michael always came back.

He would come back again, right? Gob wasn't sure how he'd manage without him. No one to bail him out. No one to make him look like the fun party guy. No one to have enough patience to pacify him when he came barging into the Bluth company offices, or to take Buster on bike rides, or to suggest that maybe Tobias should get those hair plugs removed.

No, the hair plugs were a good idea. Gob had done a brilliant job filming that video for the benefit.

"Um, Uncle Gob?"

It was Michael who'd first made him an uncle. Gob thought he'd be perfect at it. The fun party guy. Or, as Michael saw it, the broke, lazy stripper who was going to get his son addicted to drugs. But Michael always came back, so he and Gob were brothers, and they kind of liked each other. But Gob wasn't good enough to be an uncle, or a company president, or even to live in this stupid model house with stupid fake furniture and stupid fake pipes. His father had gotten to stay up in the attic while on the run from the law. Michael might be the prude, the one to whom they never told anything. But Gob was the worst. His father had once said, only half joking, that Gob's job was to seduce people and do the risky illegal stuff. But that wasn't true. His job was to be the worst.

"UNCLE GOB!"

Absentmindedly, Gob turned into the driveway of the model home at full speed, crashing into the back of the stair car.

His parents committed fraud and treason. Buster killed his ex-girlfriend. Lindsay had nothing resembling a career and yet still spent the most money. Michael was a slave to his own ego.

But at least they weren't Gob, they told themselves.

Gob wasn't even sure what that meant.

And then everything went black.