Tearing off her ER smock, Elizabeth throws it violently into the trash can. It clearly offended her. Perhaps she feels yellow washes her out. "I could pull the trigger right now if I wanted to, because it's all right here," delights a nerdy-looking guy called Milo being wheeled around by Gallant. Susan follows, and taps Elizabeth for a consult, but not without a polite welcome. "What's he have? Belly pain?" Elizabeth asks, flipping distractedly through the chart. "Only because he swallowed a small handful of nitroglycerine," Susan replies. Milo is edgy, but happily so. He revels in his tummy full of TNT. "No sudden moves, unless you want me to blow," Milo cautions. "I'm a human time bomb!" Elizabeth takes one look at him and diagnoses him as having upper right-quadrant tenderness caused by the presence of anvils in his stomach. "I could go off at any minute!" he screams. Yeah, we get it, Elizabeth's a time bomb, she's gonna blow, she could go off at any minute. At least this guy's an amusing, if heavy-handed, plot tool. Elizabeth prescribes saline plus a few hours of monitoring his symptoms. She then leaves to go quaff some nitro of her own and put herself out of the misery. It's weird -- she's acting like she didn't choose to come back here, which she completely did. Unless she tried getting a job at another hospital and failed, which would be really interesting, so of course that's not part of the story.
Susan seems annoyed that Elizabeth couldn't chalk Milo's case up to simple insanity, and trots after Elizabeth. "Gallant hasn't turfed a patient to Psych all day," she moans. "Well, you wanted the consult," Elizabeth snaps. "We're to capacity, I take it?" Susan nods that since Mission and St. Paul's closed, Coutny is swamped. "It doesn't help that Weaver's gone so much," Susan notes. Elizabeth's eyes gleam with malicious realization. "She's gunning for Romano's job," she breathes knowingly. "It keeps her very busy," Susan nods. An itchy patient diverts her attention, so Susan leaves Elizabeth alone at the front desk to tick, tick, tick her way toward an emotional explosion.
A trauma patient's gurney bursts through into the ER. The girl, Alma, took a bullet in the neck during a gang war, but she's breathing steadily. "Where's Ricky?" murmurs the girl. "Hang in there, Alma," Carter tells her, while Elizabeth takes care of her usual favorite task -- barking orders. Pratt appears, having once again smelled a chance to shine in the face of human suffering. "Carter, you've still got these med students waiting on you," he says. "Want me to jump on [the trauma]?" Carter replies. "Better idea -- you talk to them." Pratt, clearly pissed, turns to face the eager, white-coated wannabes. "Newbies, huh?" he says. "You don't want to work here." He storms off in a tizzy. Leslie Bibb jots something down in her book. Honey, this isn't "ER Protocol 101: Anatomy of an Asswipe." You won't be quizzed.