Here's a disturbing tableau: Rhonda is at Heather's house, sitting on the sofa between Heather's parents. And sitting across from them are the frightening-as-always April Blessing and a reporter from the (fictional, as far as I can tell) Salt Lake Sun-Times. This is the scene that Heather finds when she comes home from work, with Sarah at her side. Awkwardly, the reporter hits the record button on his Dictaphone and starts interviewing Rhonda. Exchanging looks of horror and then disgust, Sarah and Heather retreat into Heather's bedroom.
Well, sort of -- Sarah's trying to eavesdrop from Heather's bedroom doorway, and then says she knew it was a bad idea to bring Rhonda here. You think? "She's horrible," Heather agrees. Being Sarah's last option is the least of her problems now. They both fall silent when Rhonda swans in and plops down on the bed, asking Sarah all innocent-like, "Are we still doing your hair?" Sarah's like, WTF, crazy lady? She asks if Rhonda has said anything to the reporter about the Henricksons. "The story is about me, Sarah," Rhonda points out patiently. But according to Rhonda, when is it not? Sarah tries to call a halt to Rhonda's stay here, but it isn't up to her any more; Rhonda drops the bomb that Heather's parents are getting custody of her. For once, Heather is more alarmed than Sarah.
Bill is having a meeting with Don in his office, asking him to go over health plan numbers. Don's being businesslike and civil, but it's clear that he still has his doubts about the deal. Might that be because the whole idea is transparently radioactive? Bill tries to smooth things over with Don by presenting him with a little gift. It's a small bronze figurine of Abraham Lincoln, complete with a little stovepipe hat. Bill explains: "He tried to hold things together in a time of great change. He never forgot that he was an imperfect human being, and he knew he couldn't do it alone." Don admits that he still has misgivings about Weber Gaming, but he appreciates the present. Sure, who wouldn't be touched by a memento that serves to constantly remind you that your irritating business partner equates himself with someone on Mount Rushmore? If I were Don, I'd get right online and start looking for bronze figurines of John Wilkes Booth. Sic semper tyrannis, motherfucker.