Neela and Pratt walk up to the rundown apartment complex in which Fry Cook and his family live. Pratt's still dismissive -- go in, get him to the clinic, get out, go get curry. "The lifts are over there," says Neela. "Trust me, the elevators don't work," Pratt snorts. As they go upstairs, they're greeted with chain-link and wire balconies that stretch higher than average, and a sonic boom of rap music. "So much wire mesh," Neela notices. "It's so people don't throw things on the folks below," Pratt says. "Like trash?" Neela asks. "Like bricks," Pratt replies. That seems ill-conceived. The fences aren't that high. If you're so dedicated to hurling heavy objects, you could totally heave it up and over. Pratt and Neela bang on the door; Fry Cook isn't there, so they leave a pre-scribbled note and turn to leave. That's when Neela sees Fry Cook huffing and puffing up the stairs, almost passing out from the exertion. She immediately whips out a blood-pressure cuff as Fry Cook exposits that he's not taking his pills, because he thought that if he got some exercise he'd be fine. Pratt notices a fast-food cheeseburger in his fist and frowns. Death! Death in a bun! "Mom's working. I have to pick up the kids," Fry Cook wheezes. Neela frets about his blood pressure, which is way too high. Pratt tells him to take his pills and come in next week, and Fry Cook limps past them to his apartment, barely able to hold his hefty frame upright. Way to go, Pratt. How can you look at that kid and think he's okay? He's paler than I am, for God's sake. Neela insists that he needs an EKG and a chest x-ray, but Pratt swears all he needs is to pick up and feed his family, and escorts Neela out of there.