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Get Carter

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Heathen: C | Grade It Now!
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Get Carter

The cops arrive at Gallant's domestic-abuse call and break down the door. They pull apart the man and woman; she's bleeding from the head as he pretends she got drunk and tripped. "You're the drunk," she snarls. The husband cleverly defends his innocence by threatening to kill her. I'm sure he meant that to come out more like an offer. The cops arrest him.

Luka asks a listless-looking class how to diagnose peripheral vertigo or somesuch without using a test or the blood of a righteous pig. No one is listening, and as he busts a dozing student, Kem enters perkily and waves. Luka bites his lip and tries to smile, but the fog of futility around him is too thick.

Kidsicle tells Pratt that he became a human luge as part of his hockey initiation. He also points out, for those who are keeping score but can't tell that his skin is blue and his hair is frozen, that he is cold. Sam wants to put in a chest tube, but Pratt argues against it just as Carter enters and asks for the bullet on Kidsicle. They think he has broken feet and a compression fracture of the L-5 vertebrae. Kidsicle can't wiggle his toes. Pratt orders an MRI, but Carter waves it off, insisting that such fractures rarely result in paralysis. Cheerfully, he orders them to try warm-water immersion on the feet, and hold off on the MRI. That sounds suspiciously like a foot spa. Yes, please. "I can't feel my feet," Kidsicle whines, lifting up his face mask to talk. "I can't feel anything." Pratt explains to him exactly what he just explained to Carter, because apparently Kidsicle hears through his mouth and therefore couldn't have known. Kidsicle freaks and starts whining about whether he's paralyzed, and how scared he is; Pratt's knee jerks up high enough to smack himself in the chin, and he orders the MRI. Sam protests. "Just do it," Pratt snaps, praying that his Nike sponsorship comes through in time to deliver him from this life before Carter makes him pay for the MRI himself.

Pratt, of course, comes upon the Risk Management guy, who must appreciate the deliciousness of his title and the fact that Pratt basically blindly bumped into him. He wants Pratt to write up his recollections about Martin -- the kid with ankylosing spondylitis whose neck Pratt snapped -- but Pratt resists getting into details. He bitterly hisses that the disease turned Martin's neck into a breadstick, and it broke in Pratt's hands. Risk Management guilts him into providing on paper a full and ideally attitude-free recounting of events, so that they can avoid paying out multi-millions. Not sure how that's going to help. Pratt broke the kid's neck. Couching it in elegant language and confusing jargon won't change that. Man, if that worked, I'd script a letter in the purplest prose imaginable to my bank, explaining that a clerical error has deprived me of the ten million dollars I should rightfully have in there.

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