Michael's now sporting two chest tubes and he still doesn't have a pulse. "There's a huge air leak," Carter shares, considering putting in another tube. "That's his third," Chen says. Sesame Street would be proud. Chen tries to convince Carter that the kid's injuries are too severe, and that he's been coding on and off for forty minutes. "Well, come ON, then, think! I don't know!" Carter shrieks. Chen tenses and announces that she's calling a time of death. Carter shakes her off and talks it out: "We're pumping air into the pleural space faster than the chest tube can suck it out....I'm going to bypass the left." Apparently, this makes them realize simultaneously that the air leak is a tear in Michael's left bronchial tube. Chen still wonders if the kid's been without oxygen too long to recover. Carter begs for ten seconds, completes the procedure, and gets a pulse. "We saved him," Chen realizes, stunned. Carter tells Michael's father that his son has a hole in his airway and needs surgery, but that they think they can fix it. He then offers to take the man up to the OR waiting room, but he wants to be in there with his wife. Oh...really? Wow. I think that sounds like a hideous idea. "She'd want me there," the guy insists. So you think you're ready to know what your wife's spleen looks like? That sounds like the title of a very helpful hospital leaflet explaining to grieving relatives that the solution to your stress is not, in fact, watching someone chop up the person you love.
Pratt grabs Carter for a second to talk about Chen. He's worried about the black eye, which he and Carter both suspect came from her father, and he knows that Chen won't be completely honest with him about it because of their history. Carter promises to chat to her about it, and buzzes off with Linda's husband. Pratt, meanwhile, goes to check out Antwan's tox screen results.
Aaaaand, it turns out that in addition to being high, Antwan was hammered. And I just noticed in this scene that his lips are the most enormous things I've ever seen on a face, and yes, that includes the Streisand schnozz. Bee-stung, sure -- if we're talking a thousand very angry, vengeful bees. With toxic stingers. Antwan sulks that the cop outside his door told him that, because this is his third strike, he might get life in prison. And he's only twenty. Well, that's young to rack up three strikes, but hey, when you're a stupid jagoff, you're a stupid jagoff. "You hit a woman and a kid," Pratt points out. "But, life?" Antwan pouts. "You think that's right?" Pratt shrugs that it's the law. Antwan goes off on the Poor Me spiel where he moans that he never had any other path to take. "You grow up in Winnetka?" he sneers at Pratt. "Cabrini-Green," Pratt spits, naming one of Chicago's most infamous projects. "So I don't want to hear excuses." Antwan bristles and more or less calls Pratt a dickhead for getting out and not looking back at the place from whence he came. "Doc," he throws in bitterly, for good measure.