In Trauma Yellow, Elizabeth bumps into Sasha's dead body, still on its gurney. She yells at Haleh to move her. "Where?" Haleh sasses. "Someplace else," Elizabeth snaps. "They shot him," wails Alma. "Please, God, don't let them be hurt." Carter tries to talk her down and asks her to describe exactly where it hurts. "Can't tell," she weeps. "Your legs?" he asks. "No, I can't feel them!" she cries. Carter and Corday swap a knowing look.
Haleh wheels the corpse through the hall, summoning Gallant from Milo's side to help her. "I'm talking smithereens, here!" screams Milo. "Have you ever seen smithereens?" Gallant ignores him and grabs the gurney. "I'm on Psych rotation. I shouldn't be helping you," he tells Haleh. Then he stops and stares at the gurney for a second. "Haleh, this is a dead body," he says. "You ought to go to med school," snarks Haleh. Hee. I love her. Although now that she's lost all that weight, she looks really...baggy. Extreme weight loss tends to leave facial skin hanging a bit, which in turn highlights wrinkles. I'm betting she'll have something nipped and tucked in the next year. Don't get me wrong, though -- she's healthier, and I'm happy for her because Yvette Freeman's one of my favorite parts of this show. She manages to stand out without having to jockey for attention. Anyway, at Haleh's quip, Gallant simply blinks. Haleh explains that they can't turf Sasha to the morgue until the family has been notified of her death. Suddenly, Milo hurls himself at the wall and drops to the ground with an expectant thud. Then, he panics. "Why am I not exploding?" he gasps. I feel like that every Thanksgiving, Milo.
Elizabeth works soullessly on Alma -- whose name, coincidentally, is Spanish for "soul" -- while the girl wonders why she can't feel her extremities. Um, honey? Two plus two. Add it up. Carter bluffs that she might have a bruised spinal cord. "Where the hell is x-ray?" Elizabeth brays. "Behind you," Chuny calls out. Alma screams for Ricky. Elizabeth makes a snarky comment to the effect that what she'd really love right now, more than anything, is to see the results of Alma's ultrasound. Carter -- who is administering it as she says this -- gracefully ignores Crabby McNasty and her Flaming Britches of Bitchery so that he can do his job. "Wait, wait," he sputters urgently. "She's pregnant. Looks like eleven weeks. Baby is healthy and intact." Alma whimpers for Ricky again, as if this act is going to conjure him the twentieth time she tries it.