Neela turns even more solemn and grave when she decides to call Fry Cook's mother. Oh, just become a nurse already; that's obviously where we're going with this. Yawn.

Malarkey stitches up a doped Pratt. "I shave my melon, man," Pratt slurs. "Go with the five-oh. Minimize the scar." Malarkey giggles. Then we cut into Trauma Green just long enough for someone to alert Kerry that Abby is doing a thoracotomy on Fry Cook. Irritated, Weaver trucks back over to Abby. That is a weird cut -- it feels too soon to go back to Abby. The pacing of this episode is really odd.

Fry Cook is a giant mess of blood. "Are you out of your mind?" Weaver shouts. "He was coding!" Abby protests. "I told you he didn't need a chest tube," Weaver says. "He had three liters in his chest," Abby retorts, not without indignant triumph in her voice. Weaver is shocked. While they try to revive him, Mother Neela Teresa does her good deed and calls Fry Cook's family, leaving a very professional but still somber message. Then she lowers the phone. "Machine," she tells everyone. Right, and you haven't hung up on it yet. HANG UP THE PHONE. Poor Mama Fry Cook is getting an earful of her son's gurgling, leaky innards and some threateningly bleepy equipment. Very reassuring indeed. Neela might as well call back with a blow-by-blow of the carnage.

Malarkey finishes Pratt's sutures with a flourish and compliments himself on a job well done. I keep expecting to pan around and see that he used duct tape and staples. "You are definitely a lightweight when it comes to morphine," he teases a conked-out Pratt. But when he tries to wake Pratt for a CT scan, Pratt won't get up. For the first time in his life and our short acquaintance with him, Malarkey gets an idea. A good idea. Indeed, a professional idea, one that wasn't even written on a fortune cookie. Malarkey checks Pratt's eyes and discovers that he's blown a pupil. I can say that without vomiting because...well, I'm drunk. Malarkey curses and calls for an intubation tray and some very authentic-sounding fluids. Malarkey has actually learned something. Two nearby nurses stare at him in complete dread, like they're not used to him asserting himself unless it involves breasts or pot. It's kind of hilarious. "Should I get Weaver?" one of them asks nervously. Malarkey commands them to give him mannitol as soon as the tube is in, and he whips out and preps the tubing tool like it's a gun wrenched from his holster. The two nurses are totally looking all, "Dude, this can't be good. Nothing he does is good."