ER
Midnight

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Heathen: C | Grade It Now!
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Midnight

Luka's beige SUV is honking and flashing its lights. He turns it off, and Steve emerges from the shadows. "You know, your alarm's a little sensitive," he says. Clearly, he's been hovering there, and most likely set it off to force Luka to come out to the garage for this choice little confrontation. Luka just stares at Steve with the blandest expression in the world on his face. Actually, wait, there's a tinge of disgust. "Nice ride," Steve says. Luka refrains from saying, "Sam? Yeah -- throw in a lube job, and she really is." Steve greasily admires the SUV, and tells Luka rather pointedly that it should hold up well on resale, indicating that Luka won't be needing a family-sized car any time soon. Steve's gross. And Luka is just staring at him. I hate what a lame-ass Luka is now. I'm sorry, but it's true. All he does is stare at people. Being with Luka hasn't made Sam less boring -- it's made Luka more boring. He blinks. "You know, I really screwed this thing up with my family, but I'm going to make it right this time," Steve says, setting his jaw. "And I really need time to make it right. To let Sam see how much I've changed." Luka blinks. "Time to be a father to my son," Steve continues. Blink. Luka's mouth puckers unattractively. Yes, that's right, I just used "unattractively" and "Luka" in the same sentence. Steve creepily insists that he and Sam and Alex belong together, as he steps closer and closer to Luka. "And Sam knows that," he finishes, walking straight past an unmoving Luka. Who just blinks. Blink, blink, blink, pucker, glare, blink. I think he's communicating the subtext in morse code. And Steve, I just don't care about -- as far as I'm concerned, he can go away and take Sam with him so that Luka can get involved in something interesting again. I don't know why it has to be either hookers or humdrum. Isn't there middle ground?

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.

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