Urbanus catches up to Abby and tells her that Elena only had Benadryl and some antacids in her medicine cabinet. If she was trying to kill herself, then, she missed a golden opportunity to guzzle something from her kitchen sink collection.
The redheaded TB guy chases after Abby, angry that he's been there four hours when he feels fine. "We honestly don't know," Abby says irritably. "You could have TB, even though you don't feel sick. We are going to recommend treatment for nine months." Understandably, this sort of answer -- especially shouted -- doesn't sit well with Big Red, who wants to make Abby's big head big dead. "You want me to take meds for a disease you don't even know I've got?" he screams. "You people are something. I want a better doctor!" Enter Pratt, who relishes the chance to prove he is a cut above the rest. He introduces himself and explains that the safest thing for them to do is treat him as if he does have TB: "If I were in your position, trust me, I'd do the same thing." This placates Big Red, although he's still smoking at the ears. Pratt tells Abby that a good doctor -- of which he is the greatest example despite having recently broken a kid's neck -- can make "I don't know" sound reassuring. So a good doctor is a spin doctor? That makes me a little dizzy.
Neela reads up on leukemia on the internet. She wants to understand the treatment options before telling Juan, and she asks Darlene to page Oncology. But I hope she's not using WebMD, because that site will tell you that a stubbed toe is probably going to become gangrenous and fall off, if it doesn't kill you first. Pratt comes on to announce the halftime score; oddly, from this distance, it looks like the names on the board have been rewritten in neater script. Ray has fourteen dispos, and Neela only has seven. "The nurses were all tied up in trauma," Neela says. "You're blaming the nurses while you're surfing Medline," Pratt snorts. "Ray was using the same nurses and he's had twice as many." Ray and Pratt bump fists in that way that shows man-love is being born. Ray delivers a stirringly arrogant speech to his students about how you only ought to spend ten minutes in the room with the patient at first, so at seven you start saying your goodbyes, meaning all business must be done in five minutes or less. I would imagine that he takes the same approach with sex. Pratt is like a proud father, despite the fact that what he's preaching sounds like pretty careless medicine. Ray grabs a chart. "Jammed finger," he says happily. Neela: "How is it that you get lice and athlete's foot, and I get new-onset leukemia, tertiary syphilis, and a referral from Kazakhstan?" Ray's all, "Wow, cool, dude." Darlene trots over with another film from a case that's turned serious, and Neela frowns. "Are you accusing me of cherry-picking charts, Neela? Oh, that hurts," he says, blowing through a list of tough ones he's allegedly had that day. Someone apparently hurled an emesis basin at his head. Would that he or she hadn't missed. "I'm just slow then," Neela snits. "You're not slow, you're just differently abled," Ray brats. "Don't let Pratt get to you." Thanks, Dr. Phil. "At least you're not as bad as Abby," Ray says, as Abby predictably comes up behind him. "Not that they'd call her out on it -- the Attendings love her, the nurses protect her..." Then he turns around and sees her. "Must be nice to be the teacher's pet," he finishes. "Screw you, Ray," she says with real venom. Word. He is such a poisonous little snake.