"I had a fainting spell, John. It happens," Gamma insists. Carter has her laid up in a hospital bed with various machines hooked up to her chest. "In my day, it was acceptable for a lady to swoon," she giggles. But not over your own grandson, babe, unless you come from such towns that consider inbreeding a form of gene-pool refinement. There's another patient in the room, which is laughable, because Gamma isn't complaining about it -- somehow, I have her pegged as a stickler for the royal treatment. The patient, Kid WeNeedAWayToGetSusanInTheRoom, barely registers until Susan bounces through the door. "Hey Carter, there's a new med student looking for you," she calls out. Carter is too busy for such trifles. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Carter," Susan says politely after recognizing the older woman. Gamma swallows hard and tries to be pleasant. "Evan, I talked to your Mom. She found your inhaler in the laundry," Susan shares, so that we feel like she had a reason to be in this scene beyond mere Carter-related eavesdropping. Gamma continues to sass Carter while he plays doctor with her, but she passes out again. "Gamma?" he shouts. "Susan!" But Gamma comes around shortly thereafter; a visibly shaken Carter, after establishing that she's okay and lucid, excuses himself.

Bursting into the hall, Carter exhales and rubs his hair. Susan follows, trying to reassure him that Gamma is probably just dehydrated; he isn't much concerned with her perfunctory soothings, choosing instead to engage in some very complex fretting about big-boy things.

Gallant eagerly begs Finch to let him intubate Jeremy. "Maybe next time," she brushes him off, but still, she refuses to boot him from the trauma room. His behavior reeks of inappropriateness, and for those who don't get scratch-and-sniff MBTV, "inappropriateness" smells a lot like burnt toast. No, wait -- shit! My toast! While I dash off to rescue dinner, Finch gives the bullet to Benton: teen skateboarder, tension pneumo, needs a central line, has head injury. Finch intubates. "Bag him, [Neecole]," Luka orders. Excitedly, Neecole throws Jeremy over her shoulder and takes him home for a romp. And I don't even need to touch the "one, two, three, squeeze," line. Abby isn't impressed with Luka's blind determination to involve Neecole in this case. Benton can't believe that Jeremy damaged himself so thoroughly just from falling off his skateboard; Cleo grumps that he was probably hot-dogging with "crazy-ass stunts," and ended up in the ER with a depressed skull fracture. "That's what you used to call a ping-pong fracture, right?" Gallant asks. A few heads turn. Why is he still there? The Swift Boot of Justice, which Sars and Wing Chun would've delivered an hour ago, still hasn't implanted itself in Gallant's perky anus. Jeremy's pressure suddenly plummets. Benton deduces that he's bleeding somewhere -- it was the presence of blood that tipped him off -- and shouts for some of the sweet red juice for a transfusion. Benton and Abby swap diagnostics. "What about the head?" Gallant interrupts. Benton glares. "You're the trauma surgeon, right?" Gallant asks. At this point, no one is paying Jeremy any attention. His innards could be reenacting Hamlet, with a moving performance by his cerebrum as Ophelia, and none of these boneheads would know because they're fixated on The Battle of the Male African-American Cast Members Who Aren't Malik. Benton growls that the young med student would learn more if he shut up and watched, a lesson every young, hot-blooded male should've learned by now from assorted strippers and skin flicks. Quietly, Luka points out that Gallant might be right to consider treating Jeremy's head. "It won't matter if he bleeds out through his chest first," Benton snaps, wheeling Jeremy out of the room.