Trixie is staring out at the new day as Al blearily recounts to her a scene from his (even more sordid than now) past. Apparently, the guy he killed back in Chicago -- the murder for which a warrant was issued for his arrest, and for which Magistrate Claggett is trying to blackmail him after promising to fix it for a relatively small fee -- was a cop. "A slob mick cop from Chicago," Al clarifies. "I knifed the tub of guts." Trixie asks if Al will be able to "do business" with Adams, Claggett's bagman. "I'll fuckin' find that out shortly," he tells her. He asks her for a report on what she sees in the street. She tells him Bullock just rode out with Hostetler, from the livery, and E.B. has slithered across the street and into the Gem. With curiosity she adds that Jewel has just left. Al asks where she might be going, but Trixie doesn't know. He must be in a magnanimous mood this morning, because he tells Trixie to take half a day off if she likes to go and see Sophia. "Sally fuckin' forth," he says, "but now come back to bed." She does.
Meanwhile, Jewel is attempting to make her way through the nasty mud of the thoroughfare. She is repeatedly accosted by stupid idiots making fun of her infirmities, but she struggles on, carrying a book. She falls in the mud once, but it doesn't slow her down. She gets up, brushes back her hair, and keeps going until she gets to Doc's. He is surprised and unhappy to see her, thinking Al has made her walk all this way to get him. "I came here on my own, Doc," she corrects him. "I got something I want to show you! It's a book!" He vehemently resists it, saying he doesn't read books on the Civil War. "I don't need to look," he says. "I was goddamn there." But Jewel is persistent -- she wants him to see a diagram of something that will help her walk better. It's a leg brace that has been made for a soldier whose leg was shot up. Doc sits her down, explaining that the brace was made for a man who was able-bodied, not born with difficulties like hers. "I was just lookin' at the picture," she says, "and draggin' my leg really makes Al crazy." Doc does not even hesitate: "Fuck. Al," he says. "Everybody's got limits. You draggin' your leg is yours." Jewel apologizes, and Doc admonishes her, again. "Don't," he says. "Don't apologize to me." He looks at the book again, sighs, and tells her to let him hold onto it for a while.
In the thoroughfare, Merrick is practically dancing a jig. His camera, "an American Optical back-focus single-swing," has just been delivered. "Ah," he says, euphoric, "what William Henry Fox Talbot would have achieved in service of this fine apparatus." The two guys who unloaded the box are less than impressed, and Merrick nearly has a stroke as they roughly handle his precious cargo.