Patrick Fugit is still here, and as such, he's still almost famous. He catches Susan mid-stroll. "Dr. Lewis! The patron saint of lost causes," he grins. Trina whizzes past him. "You all right?" Susan asks. "I'm a little nauseous," he says. Ha! The writers meant "nauseated." I'm going to have a bit of a gloat about that. And if Jessica tries to tell you anything about how I only just figured that one out, well, ignore her. She's probably drunk. Anyway, Patrick asks what the big brouhaha is in the ER, so Susan explains about the shooting across the street. "It's scary when it's so close," he nods, hopping up onto a bed and expositing that he's going home today and begins another round of chemo in two days. "I thought I'd come by and say 'so long,'" he says. Susan cocks an eyebrow and asks where Frances is. "She's upstairs with the 'doctor,'" Patrick says, fully utilizing air quotes there. "I kinda snuck off. I actually might need one of those basins." Susan hands him an emesis basin in case he decides to revitalize the NBC Vomit Comet with a casserole of hospital-issue Jell-O and baked beans. She runs off to get him an IV and to speak to his mother, asking Carter to watch Patrick until she's back. Patrick raises his hand. "I'm not a child," he offers. That's right. He's all man, and he's got a hunger for some braised Loin of Lewis.
In an indoor gym, Pratt and Gallant are playing basketball with some cronies. Testosterone is oozing from everything. It drips into my eyes. Oh, it burns. Pratt is pushing and shoving whoever he's defending, and he's getting as good as he gives. Gallant breaks up a near-fight; the next time Pratt goes up for a shot, he gets slammed back into a bleacher, cutting the palm of his hand. Everyone stops and stares at him. Pratt checks out his palm, stands up slowly, wipes it onto the white front of his Sean John tank top, and snarls. Nobody messes with his Diddywear. Nobody. He charges at his opponent, but Gallant breaks it up again. "Forget about it. We won," Gallant says. I guess Pratt made the shot. "Next week," Pratt growls at the guy, pointing at him. Lordy, I hope not. "That's what I thought," huffs his opponent.