In Trauma Green, Simon Mason is a charred mess of a man, with disgusting blistered burns all over his body that look remarkably like the makeup department just put some body latex in the microwave for ten minutes on "Pustule" and crossed their fingers. I'm not completely sure what happens , because when all the medical mumbo-jumbo starts up, my eyes glaze and I have to go to my happy place by thinking about Cadbury's Crme Eggs and pants. I think they decide they need to reintubate, and Pratt's about to do it until Gallant discovers a tracheal shift. He stabs the guy's chest with a needle, and that apparently does the trick. "Nice catch, Gallant," Chen lauds.
Malik, in Trauma Other with Abby and Andy, yells that they need help. Pratt announces that he's too busy tying off a bleeder, but Chen frostily suggests that Gallant can take over while Pratt helps Abby. Pratt's irritated by this. Chen doesn't care. So Pratt goes into Trauma Other to help Abby pop Andy's knee back in; Andy babbles and babbles that he'd challenged the old-timers to a race up to the roof, and Sandy and Simon won and were rewarded by having everything collapse upon them. The moral of the story is that if you are older than twenty-five and you are running, you're going to die. This doesn't bode well for my 10K race in two weeks. Anyway, in a truly disgusting shot, Pratt yanks the knee back into place with a bone-crunching noise and a nice long close-up of the leg wiggling back into unity with the kneecap. I would vomit, had I not just been frozen solid by the twin Medusas of explicit joint relocation and the Foley artist's bone-on-bone symphony.
Weaver bolts downstairs and bumps into Sam. "Trauma [Yellow]," Sam directs her. "How bad?" Weaver asks. "She's conscious," Sam offers carefully. Very diplomatic. And also transparent. It's like asking, "Do I look fat in this?" and hearing in response, "Your hair looks great."
Kerry sprints into Trauma Yellow to Sandy's side, cradling her lover's face. "Hey, baby," Sandy moans. "What did you go and do?" Kerry whispers lovingly. Susan briefly gives Weaver the bullet and concludes, "She needs the OR." I think her liver's torn and she's got fluid in both pericolic gutters. We had that at our house once, but my mother made my father get up on a ladder and clean them out. "Good thing I pumped," Sandy jokes weakly. Sandy opens her mouth to try to tell Kerry something -- presumably that Sandy loves her -- but her pericolonic guttersnipes start splashing around in the waste matter and make Sandy pass out before she can say a thing. "Sandy, you need to stay awake, sweetie," Kerry says desperately, tapping Sandy on the cheeks -- and then, in the desperate hope of resuscitating her conked-out girlfriend, graduating awfully close to "open-handed bitch-slap." Susan wants to intubate, but she can't until Kerry is done smacking that ass up, which is apparently taking a while. At this point she'd better hope Sandy doesn't wake up, because there will be a reckoning when she spies the palm-shaped bruise on her cheek. Then Kerry decides she wants to intubate, and Susan pleads with her to back away. "Please," Kerry says plaintively, tears brimming in her eyes. "She's my wife." Everyone steps back and nods, because when a lesbian says this, the standard is apparently different.