Kara begins to cry, watching it unfolding. The day she killed her mother. Kara sits at the table, too young and fresh to understand death. Without looking, she sits gingerly and reaches for her mother's hand. Kara Thrace has hands; Socrata has hands too. Kara almost looks away from herself, unfolding. "I don't want your pity!" Socrata shouts, pulling back, too quick for her daughter. "You haven't got it," Kara chokes. Socrata tells her where to shove her pity: "Feel sorry for yourself. You'll have to find another way to motivate your ass, I'm not gonna be around to do it any longer. Oh, don't tell me you're gonna cry about it now." Kara chokes, pushes it down, into the bug room, stands up. "I'm gonna walk out that door and you can look at it every frakkin' miserable day you have left, and know that I am never gonna come back through it again." And she won't. Socrata calls after her daughter; Kara cries, watching it unfolding. "You kept running, didn't you? For blocks." She runs, and runs; upstairs Socrata lights another cigarette; the clock ticks out her time. The ashtray is full of butts, six for every hour. The only thing more awful than your mother's strength is her weakness.
Kara and Leoben stand in an abandoned apartment, with the Corporal's medal still on the wall: stillness, quiet, loneliness, pills. "She waited here. Five weeks, hoping you'd come back. She died alone." Kara looks at nothing. "I was afraid, I couldn't watch." Time is not something this show has ever taken seriously; the level we're playing at right now, it shouldn't be a concern at all. Time a projection. "It's not too late. She's waiting, still." Kara jerks her head at him and then walks to the bedroom door. Which is about to open.