Susan likes slightly sweaty men in uniforms, it seems. She's just dismounted the Chuck Wagon and now she's flirting up a storm with two men who wield huge spewing hoses for a living. "Isn't the fire outside, boys?" Abby interrupts, scolding. "It's out," one of the firemen says. "Then shouldn't you be rolling up your hoses?" Abby calls over her shoulder as she exits, Susan in tow. "Heading back? Feeding that little spotted dog? Polishing your pole?" Susan stifles a snicker and asks if Abby is cranky or flirting. "What?" Abby scowls. "'Polish your poles'?" Susan quotes with a laugh.

Susan and Abby, with Pratt, greet the latest gang-banger, who's got a bullet wound in his chest. They notice that he's sporting an old one in his shoulder, too, and as Abby gasps at his relative youth, we see his face: It's Turner, shot for the second time in one day and the third time in a week. This time, his composure is gone. He is openly sobbing with fear.

Trauma Green, Carter's shift. He's with Turner, whose lower lip is thrust outward in a mighty pout. "Want me to call your mom?" Carter asks. "She'll kick my ass," Turner postures. She would, too. That wig was powerful stuff. Carter tries to convince him that, at thirteen, he is too young for this and should be looking after his mother and his paralyzed sister now that Curtis is six feet under. Turner doesn't buy this; that downy hair in strange places and his cracking voice indicate that he is, if not all man, then at least a third of one, and that's good enough for him. Carter rips off the kid's bandanna just as Turner sits up and begins removing his tubing. "Someone gotta take care of business," he growls pre-pubescently. "Who's gonna take care of business when you get killed?" Carter lectures.