Pratt is annoyed with Neela for taking eight hours to tell a man he's got leukemia. "Oncology couldn't get down and I was trying to figure out what to tell him," she argues. "He wasn't going to hear anything after you said 'cancer,'" Pratt says quietly. He tells her that she handled the whole thing wrong and could've gotten a social worker or a guard for the door. "It's about you and your need to be perfect," Pratt says. "You need to stop becoming a slow A-plus and start becoming a fast B." Can't she be a fast A-minus? I really don't know why Pratt wants her to slip a full grade point. As a once and future patient of doctors, I don't really advocate that. "Find him before he bleeds out and dies," Pratt says. I wish Neela had snotted that it would adversely affect her point totals, but instead she slumps away defeated. She needs to smile, and badly. She encounters Abby and remarks enviously that Abby and Ray are so confident in their traumas, and Abby brats that Neela ought to give herself at least a week before becoming better than everyone else again. Bitter much, Abby? "I don't know why I'm here," Neela frowns. Because you need decent money and because you are a gigantic mope who was unhappy at the Jumbo Mart? Because you frown at the idea of doing everything and yet you have no interest in doing what you studied to do? Forget the grass being greener elsewhere -- does she even know what color grass is supposed to be?
Carter sees Wendall sprinting through the ER, so he follows -- puppies do -- and finds her in Trauma Yellow, restraining a screaming and grieving Mrs. Mangled Man. Briefly, he wishes he could be in the middle of that fair-haired sandwich.
Ray hands out donuts like the Pied Piper of cholesterol. "Does he do that every day?" Neela complains. "Twice at the start of each nursing shift," Abby says with disdain. "And that works?" Neela gasps. "Apparently," Abby sighs. Pratt drops in for another helpful reminder that Ray is great and fast, and that everyone else eats his dust like disgusting little maggots. Abby spits that she's in some weird vortex where none of her cases are simple, not even the ones that look on paper like they will be. "All my patients need three consults and a huge workup, and even then, there's no definitive diagnosis," she rants. "I'm not going to pretend they're cut and dried to get a hash mark...I just want one patient today that has a clear problem that I can help!" Pratt is taken aback. "Okay," he says, handing her a chart. "Okay," she exhales.