Outside in the ambulance bay, Carter shakes out a yellow trauma gown as he waits for the rig to arrive. Abby exits, already clad in her gear. "Shotgun to the face?" she grimaces. "This is going to be fun." Carter jokes that it's cheaper than plastic surgery. Abby moves behind him under the auspice of helping him tie up his gown, but really she's checking the freshness date on his buns. "How's the bite?" she asks. "I'm not howling at the moon," he teases. "How'd it go?" Abby immediately says, "What?" and she's genuinely not getting his drift. "The meeting," he prompts her. "It was boring," Abby says generically. But I think her first answer was too quick, and her second too trite, to have been sincere. I don't think she actually went, or if she did, she ducked in and didn't stay. She gets defensive when he's surprised that she actually went. I still think she's full of more shit than a shit sandwich on sourdough-rye shit bread. "You went for you, or because you promised me you would?" he asks seriously. Abby is silent as the sirens scream and edge closer. "Is this going to look like hamburger?" she asks, grossed out. "More like ground chuck," he answers. There's another pause. "I went for you," Abby finally admits, bolting to the ambulance. Carter stares after her and appears flattered, but he shouldn't be, because it's obvious she's not committed to her own recovery for the right reasons.

As Abby heads into the ambulance, the paramedic hops out and warns Carter that he'll need a lot more people. "Why?" Carter asks, innocently.

Cut to Trauma Green, where a mangled man is twitching so hard he's actually blurry. His torso is bathed in crimson, as is his face; we can see evidence of total structural ruin, but the strategically placed rags mopping up the blood flow obscure the view of anything truly gross. But it's nasty enough. Susan and Luka are pitching in, with almost everyone manning a limb and trying to keep the quivering man as still as possible. The paramedic shares that they got in some morphine before he yanked out his own IV. Abby shouts for the guy to keep still; when your face is in pieces and riddled with bullets, and you can't breathe, and your entire blood supply is coming out one of seven different gaping holes, a gentle "hold still" is extremely helpful. At least, in my experience. Malik wonders whether the convulsions are from PCP. "Or the gunshot wound," suggests Susan. The guy needs to breathe, so Abby hands Gallant the bag and orders him up around the victim's head. Gallant, whose head has been turned away the whole time, takes the bag with a sickened expression. "Wait, are we tubing him, or criking him?" Abby asks, confused. "Crike," Susan says. "Tube," Carter says at the same time. They look at each other, and Carter says he just wants to take a peek down the airway. Gallant stations himself by the head and grimaces, ill. "Oh, he's aspirated too much blood," groans Carter. He yells at Gallant to hold the man's jaw open -- I think; he says "unroof" -- while he tries to tube him. Holding his breath -- which is a cute touch, because that's totally what I would do -- Gallant reaches in there with a pained expression and does his job while Susan holds the guy's tongue down. "I can't do this," Gallant sputters. "Don't you move, Gallant! Just abduct the mandible!" yells Carter. "I need to sit down," chokes Gallant urgently. "Don't move!" Carter shouts again. The camera pushes in on Gallant getting sicker and sicker and greener and greener, until finally Carter yells, "I'm in! Let go, Gallant!" Gallant complies and whirls around, hunched over and panting, still queasy. Carter shouts out more orders and then kindly suggests that Gallant escape outside to get some air. Susan and Carter watch him leave. "Nice work, John," Susan praises him. Carter bites back a smile, and resists the temptation to lick and squeeze Mark's stethoscope out of gratitude for Greenifying him.