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.
Chen bursts in and screams that they need the room now. "In a minute," Carter says calmly. Um, Carter? She's yelling, and did you not notice the din of gurneys chugging down the hall? So take your minute and store it deep up your right nostril. Chen breathlessly explains that police found victims of a mass suicide and the survivors are all arriving. Carter packs Turner onto the gurney he was trying to dismount and sends him packing to make room for the new Tertiary Medical Crises Of The Week.
Night. Pratt wheels Turner inside. "My feet! Why can't I feel my feet?" he moans. "Will somebody please call my mom?"
Day. Carter hands Turner some paper and has him jot down his mother's wig's phone number. Then he runs around into the trauma room to check on the incoming victims; apparently, they all drank poison in an attempt to "meet the eclipse," according to the cop. Of sixty people, only ten were still breathing. Carter sniffs cyanide and screams for antidote kits. A woman starts to seize, so Carter runs to her side while Turner watches, then scowls at the ceiling, annoyed that new body hair and a head scarf don't make a lad impervious to bullets.