(lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to various monitors)
Mal: This is your fault.
Mal: If you shovelled the van out of the snow, like I asked, none of us would be here right now.
Jake: Oh, yeah, the blockages in your heart, that's my fault; that's got nothing to do with the seven trays of pork chops you shove down your gob every night
Mal: Two sons at home and neither of you dare to lift a shovel.