Pratt wheels a high-frequency oscillator into Meningitis Boy's room. He starts to explain it to Neela, but she of course already knows what it is and how it works and what it does. I don't, but where's the news in that? Pratt acts asshattishly impressed with Neela -- that unique blend of mockery and admiration that only he can drip. Neela pulls him aside and asks if they're going to call the state medical board to report the clinic doctor. Pratt doesn't understand why they would do that. Neela is horrified that anyone sent the boy there instead of checking him out immediately, so Pratt drags her further away from her med student and hisses that busting a clinic doctor won't do anyone any good, because those people are still a great line of defense. The kid's vaccinated, so he reasons that it's not like the clinic was always wholly negligent. Neela fumes.
Gallant frantically tries to find room for Jamila, but no one will take her. Lili watches him with a combination of fascination and concern, and I'm sure, no small amount of lust. But maybe I'm projecting; maybe she just has the Sally Hansen Home Waxing Strips and is itching to save Gallant's lip from its tyrannical follicles. See? I wasn't kidding about the mustache hate. I once ate at a restaurant in New York called Moustache, and I actually had to enjoy it in spite of myself. Gallant slams down the phone in frustration. "It's sweet, what you're doing," Lili gushes. "Yeah, what I'm trying to do," he mourns. He feels frustrated that if the girl stays there she will certainly die, and it doesn't help that as soon as he goes out to see her, the mother thanks him profusely. "God keep you for what you are doing," Whitley translates. Gallant is deeply affected, because he's adorable. This is so the Season 11 version of The Africa Chronicles, wherein one man similarly waged war against the conditions around him, while I fought an important battle against that man's facial hair. Aren't all the Carter fans out there thrilled I'm not required to recap him here? Wait...don't answer that. Please.
Neela decides to vent her anger at the clinic by calling the doctor and yelling at him, threatening to report him if he does it again, and ordering him to sit in the corner with his dunce hat on and think about what he did. Pratt rolls his eyes and asks if she's discharged whatever rabid wolf died up her ass on this shift. Neela spits that she's sick of being treated like a god of medicine one second and a loser the next: "If you trust me, then give me room. If you don't, say so." "I don't," Pratt says. Neela stops short. "You could be the best doctor here -- everyone knows you're five times smarter -- but most of the time you're in your head," Pratt clarifies with brutal truth. Neela swallows and admits that he's right: "I blow things out of proportion. I obsess." Wait. I thought she was dispassionate and zoned, and a little uncertain. Which story are they telling, here? "I come here, I do my shift, I go home, I sleep," she prattles. "I can't believe this is my life." Pratt urges her to reclaim a social life and go out on a date. Neela: "Why does everybody seem to think I need to get laid?" Because you so won't be sorry if you do. Pratt giggles and agrees with me. Again: Satan is down there strapping on ice skates.