Kem and Dr. Ferina walk through the halls as he explains that his goal is to get his patients to the point where they have an undetectable viral load. She wants to see the AIDS ward, and he explains that they used to have one, but don't any longer. I'm surprised Kem doesn't march downstairs and publicly flog Weaver for not spending Romano's grant money on that. Kem shakes her head, amazed at how different it is here than in Africa, which...yes, Kem, yes it is. Was it the snow that tipped you off? Ferina offers to let her observe in the outpatient clinic, and when she enters, she's stunned to see a small and healthy-looking contingent of AIDS patients. Kem can't believe it. Apparently Carter's chronic disbelief is contagious.
Pratt and Neela treat a guy who's having trouble breathing. Carter enters and bitingly asks if Pratt sent Kidsicle for an MRI. Pratt argues that Kidsicle started whining and freaking about being paralyzed, as one might, and he was just trying to be thorough. Carter rather pleasantly encourages him to come confer before going over his head, and then asks Neela for the bullet on this dude. His name's Mr. Morgan, he's sixty-four, and his respiratory tract is inflamed. "Hurts like hell," says Morgan. Carter wants Pratt to perform a thoracentesis, whatever that is, and Pratt says he's deferred that procedure to the hospital's lung experts. "That's good, as long as [Morgan] doesn't mind gasping for air until sometime tomorrow," Carter says lightly. "Tomorrow?" freaks Morgan. "I could be dead by then!" Carter watches this, apparently enjoying the patient-intimidation method of getting his doctors to toe the line. Pratt yanks Carter aside and growls that the same procedure last year put down Morgan's lung. "He'll be better off upstairs," he insists. "He will, or you will?" Carter asks, guessing that Pratt's behavior stems from being gun-shy since he snapped Martin's neck. Pratt tries to pretend that's not it, but his excuses and denials are as thin as the Pleasure Mesh Trojan he'll use on that hot nurse tonight. Carter goads him into doing it with a little reverse psychology, and Pratt falls for it, but looks totally miserable even as he preps for the procedure.
Carter exits and watches Pratt through the window, hand tapping at his hairy chin, as if asking The Beard in Morse code for advice. Kem bounds around the corner, breastlets bouncing, nipples standing tall, needing no clunky metal adornment to announce themselves. Hey, Kem? It's called a brassiere. You speak French -- you should know the word. She slips comfortably under Carter's arm as he asks how Ferina was. "He was very generous with his time," she says. "But I'm still ten years away from the results he's getting." Yes. Because your study is new. His is not. There are dots. Children can connect them.