Before Pratt can go anywhere, Mrs. Webster wanders past him. He gently grabs her and escorts her back to her bed, because that's how he's used to herding the ladies. "Oh, you're a good boy," she murmurs appreciatively. "That's what all the ladies say," Pratt schmoozes. If they're calling you a boy, Pratt, then you've got to let 'em descend a little further because you're no man.
Lester and Malarkey present to Carter a thirty-year-old mother who's getting migraines. Malarkey is looking a little peaked, and he's breathing heavily. Perhaps he's experiencing withdrawal from the anti-asshat medication that he's clearly forgotten to take. Malarkey nods that he's fine, so Carter proceeds with the exam; the mother begs for them to feed her kids something hearty. She rattles off a list of foods that triggers something in Malarkey's belly. Specifically, the NBC Vomit Comet, which was installed just this morning. Malarkey winds up and hurls all over the hospital floor; we don't see him do it, so of course they cut to a close-up of the pukesplash. It's lumpy, and red-orange...yes, I think I detect vodka sauce. Lester, overcome, chucks up his lunch so as not to be antisocial. "Think you should be working?" Carter asks, biting his lip to stifle a laugh. Malarkey nods that he'll call in somebody else, and flees. Lester waves off Carter's pointed look. "Sympathy hurl," he insists. Hee. Migraine Mom is strangely unaffected by this, and we figure it's because she's got nothing in her belly to puke. Carter asks her suspiciously when she last ate, and Migraine Mom very cleverly throws him off the trail by ignoring him and letting her eyes dart around, frowning all the while. Smooth.
Back with Larry: he's getting a scan to determine his exact problem. He's babbling about Martin's bone condition, and how he knows Martin isn't happy, but it's a fact that he can't live like a normal boy. Pratt tells him to let the kid live a little, and heads back behind the glass to cue the technician. But Larry suddenly goes into some kind of distress. "His pressure's down. We have to pull him," the technician insists. "We have to define his pathology first!" Pratt announces, bolting into the scan room to try to save the day. "You need lead!" shouts the technician. Pratt's like, "Whatever, heroes don't wear aprons," and tosses the lead cover to the female student with him, who is thinking, "Awesome, thanks -- I was hoping to poison you later anyway." Pratt has decided that for these twenty seconds, his body is stronger than Radiology. "Page Corday!" he booms.