Neela and Pratt finish up with Juan, the bruised guy, by telling him that they'll diagnose him when his test results arrive. Pratt quietly asks Neela if she ordered those tests without consulting him. She replies that Pratt was busy. "I really don't get it -- you're proactive, you're delegating, and yet you're still in last place," he shakes his head. They end the conversation in front of a whiteboard on which Pratt is thoughtfully and tastefully keeping a tallied score. The names on the white board are scrawled in a child's handwriting, which would fit Pratt's sensibilities in this case. I can't believe anyone is supporting them in plowing through cases when they're supposed to be teaching. That just sounds like a lawsuit. Where is the litigation-obsessed Weaver when you need her?
Abby and Ray fuss over the mangled jet-skier. "Jet-skis account for only 20\% of boats but are involved in 44\% of injuries," Dubenko says, fascinated. "Know why that is? Dr. Lockhart?" Abby spits, "No." Dubenko grins, "'No' is right -- no throttle, no steering, no way to stop." Ray takes time out from this lesson to crike the guy so that he gets oxygen through his throat. Dubenko does some quick calculation and deduces that when pylon met face and they began their grisly tango, the guy's head was subjected to seven Gs of force. "Think about it," Dubenko practically orgasms. Abby snaps that they're doctors, not physicists. Oh, Abby, shut up and let him talk. With number of times you've talked about your personal life or taken calls from your wandering brother in the middle of a trauma, the least you can do is let a guy get his rocks off over the physics of a mangled head. The bleeding man goes into v-tach, and Abby hops up to do compressions. "The impact of nine-hundred-ninety pounds dropped on his head -- that's what you're up against," Dubenko says, eyes wide. "That's not all I'm up against," Abby mutters. Oh, hush. Ray grabs the paddles, so Abby steps away. "Uh-oh, Lockhart, watch yourself," Dubenko coos. "I'm nowhere near the bed," she says, misinterpreting him. "Exactly," he retorts. Abby hisses, "What am I supposed to do, grab them out of his hands?" She futzes with her bangs, which Dubenko notes with glee. We fade to black on Abby's face arranging its features into a murderous expression, while Dubenko titters in the background like a puppetmaster yanking the strings.