Ray, Neela, and Abby all get called to the rig to help; it's a fifteen-year-old kid with a bullet wound in his chest. As they wheel him inside, they find out that there are no open trauma rooms, and apparently no room for them through the triage barrier. So they stand there in the waiting room and work on the wounded kid, in full view of a lot of traumatized men, women, and children. Were I there, they would not need a vomit comet; I could happily produce all on my own. Abby and Ray snap to it quickly, but a zoned-out Neela needs to be yelled at in order to get going. The kid needs a chest tube, so Ray whips out his handy-dandy scalpel and removes the protective covering. "You carry a scalpel?" Abby blinks. "Bone saw's too bulky," he says. Ray then wants Neela to do something, so she appears to take over digging around in the kid's side until a massive volcano of blood erupts in Ray's direction. "Huge hemothorax," Neela deadpans. Ray is loving being covered in blood, because, like, that's so rock and roll. So Ozzy. Whatever she did worked, though, because the kid has a pulse and Susan arrives right in time to escort them to an empty trauma room. She compliments their initiative as all the squicked-out patients stare at them with jaws hanging open. All three of them pant tiredly, standing in a river of blood down which viewership and fan loyalty is sailing merrily away. Then Ray holds up his bloodied hands. "Next?" he grins, wiggling them. We smash to the credits willing to concede that Shane West did at least get that one right.