Gallant has asked the cardiologist -- the acerbic Dr. Kayson -- to check out Chem. "Did you get meatloaf this time, [Chem]?" he snarks. "I'm a vegan now," she nods importantly. "Good for you," Kayson sneers, walking away and writing her off as a simple case of costochrondritis, which is defined as inflammation of the ribs at the point where they connect with the sternum. Apparently, it can impede comfortable breathing. Pratt is watching Gallant deal with Kayson. Gallant is more deeply concerned about Chem, but Kayson won't be convinced. "The only exercise the old bird gets is lifting a match for her cigarettes," Kayson sneers. "Send her home on Naprosyn," Pratt offers from the cheap seats. "You still work here?" snaps Kayson. "Last time I checked," Pratt fires back. Gallant interrupts again to say that he's concerned with Chem's progressing dyspnea. "When you become an actual doctor, Mr. Gallant, then you can make a diagnosis," Kayson assholes. Gallant looks as if his gut just took a hard punch; Pratt eats this up, because he is a prick who feeds on the meek.

Gallant makes one more gentle plea. "I just thought you might want to monitor [Chem] in cardio," he says, uncomfortably. Kayson spits at an approaching Carter, "I don't know why your student calls me in for a consult and then refuses to accept my advice." Maybe because you're not really paying attention to the case? Just a thought. Two words: bedside manner. Carter stammers that Gallant is simply trying to be thorough, which technically is not a crime in most states. Except perhaps Arkansas. We're watching you, Arkansas. Kayson snarls that Chem's been admitted ten times in two years for a rule-out myocardial incident (heart attack), and has always had a flat T-wave, which...I don't know what that means, but it sounds like the opposite of a perm. "Next time, check the records," Kayson hisses. "I did," Gallant pipes up. "Then you know I already cathed her," Kayson shouts. "So much for thoroughness!" He leaves in a blue fit.