A nurse wheels Patrick outside to wait for the van to take him home. Susan -- having meditated on this and decided that a dying boy trumps a grieving mother -- shows up to tantalize Patrick one last time with her gravelly voice and spunky wool hat. He sulks that his mother left early to make sure the home hospice stuff is all set up. "I think you're doing the right thing," she coos. "I think it doesn't matter what you think," he pouts. Then he apologizes for being pissed at her, which he bloody well should, and explains that death just feels a little too imminent these days. He rattles off all the things he always wanted to do, and bless him, first on the list is getting drunk at a college party. Patrick, paradoxical though it seems, that is both an overrated and highly underrated experience. I did a lot of puking that can attest to that. He also mentions windsurfing and getting married and having kids. "Even after I got sick, I kept tricking myself into believing that I had more time," Patrick concludes wistfully. His ride shows up, but not in time to head off one of Susan's wild impulses. She stands up firmly. "I can't get you into college, and windsurfing's nuts, but come on, let's get out of here," she announces. Oh my God. They're going to elope and try to impregnate her. "Call his mom," Susan says. "Tell her we went on a date," Patrick grins, standing up excitedly. "I'll have him back by curfew," giggles Susan. "Maybe. Say 'maybe,'" whispers Patrick with a wink. The guy stares after them, smiling. "I remember my first doctor," he thinks.