...and then bursting right out of it again, shrugging on his lab coat. "You're late," Jerry says. It's 8:11 PM that same day, and Pratt's beginning the night shift, according to the Graphic of Do You See What We're Doing Here -- I Mean, Do You Really? Jerry scolds him for being late to take over from Carter. "What's he gonna do? Fire me?" Pratt laughs. Jerry asks if Pratt saw the eclipse and geeks out about how infrequently they take place. Pratt couldn't care less, and in fact slept through most of it. That's how almost all of my friends feel about this show now. As Jerry babbles, Pratt stares down the hall at Carter, who is wearing blue scrubs and is speaking to a disturbed woman and her two young children. "You couldn't wake up for ten minutes?" scolds Jerry. "The moon blocks out the sun -- big deal. I've got a billboard outside my apartment that does the same thing," Pratt parrots Susan, for no reason I can think of other than that Jack Orman thought it would be cute, which...okay. A puppy would be cute. Can we have one?
Carter exhaustedly skulks over to Pratt, who thoughtfully comments, "You don't look so good." Carter robotically gives him a bunch of bullets: There's a twelve-year-old near-drowning victim who's comatose with no purposeful movements, a six-year-old girl in respiratory arrest from cyanide toxicity, and a Buddhist nun who died. "Reincarnated," Jerry corrects. "Cycle of karma." For a big dumb oaf, Jerry has a lot of random knowledge. Unless he's a closet Buddhist, but I don't think Jerry's a closet anything, as the closet large enough to house him is not in fact a closet, but a room in and of itself. Carter ignores Pratt's banter and points to the dead body of a heart-attack victim whose family is waiting to see him once he's cleaned up from his recent passing and is ready for guests. Carter then swiftly heads for the exit. "All right, see ya, nice knowin' ya," Pratt says, wondering why there wasn't more wailing and gnashing of teeth involved in this, their final goodbye. Carter stops. Pratt reminds Carter that Pratt starts at Northwestern next week, and apparently, he had his head shaved and buffed for the occasion. He's positively shiny. There's so much glow bouncing off that thing, you could use it as a flashlight. "Good luck, Greg," Carter says, sort of sincerely. "You too," Pratt nods. Carter busts outta there.
Day shift, 8:14 AM, according to the Graphic of God, We Hope Graphics Win Emmys. There's a giant plot device...er, "truck" blocking the ambulance bay because Weaver is moving the triage area to make room for more beds, in the hope that a construction worker will therefore conveniently pierce himself with something right before the eclipse so that the show can fake one and try to sneak a technical Emmy bid in here. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry if I've spoiled a totally unimportant plot point. Except, not really. Carter meets Chen outside, waiting for a rig to arrive, and watches this bemusedly. "I thought you were on vacation," Chen frowns. "Tomorrow," he says. Apparently, Carter's headed off to Rio de Janeiro with Stephen Keaton to lose their grief under assorted paper drink umbrellas. "Ooh la la, string bikinis," Chen teases. Okay, no. There's little as unappealing as the vision of Carter and Stephen Keaton sitting on the beach in twin nut slings, drooling over half-naked women in bathing suits they can rip off with their teeth. That's all wrong.