Stephen is watching business news reports in the study, quietly sipping whiskey and grousing about plunging biotech stocks. How very Alex Keaton of him. Carter peers in to check for Gamma, and is startled by his father's indifference to everyone around him. Stephen ribs Carter for his insistence on finding Gamma; Carter retorts that his father should stand up to the Frozen Femme just once and stay in the house that night, for Gamma's sake. He tries to press the issue of his father's apparent avoidance, but Stephen wants no part of this armchair analysis. Carter bristles, then blurts, "Bobby's not coming back. If Mom wants to walk around in a bubble for the rest of her life, then fine, but don't let her keep holding you inside of it." Stephen sneers and turns up the volume, but then sighs and calls out to his son that Gamma might be in the garage.
Stephen's hunch proves true -- Gamma's in the garage, along with a bunch of other mint-condition vintage machines. She's revving a nifty two-seat convertible, bright red but stubbornly resisting her pleas to start. Carter gently suggests that it's flooded and needs to rest for a second. He admits that his mother sent him to fetch Gamma so that the guests can pay their respects. "They can wait," Gamma insists. "I'm the widow." She whips out a bottle of champagne that she and her husband had saved for their 60th anniversary. "Missed it by a year," she frowns. "Open it," she orders. Carter resists, but she wants to toast her late husband in style, so he pours Gamma a glass and raises the bottle for himself. "To John Truman Carter: entrepreneur, philanthropist, family man," Carter begins. "And friend," Gamma finishes, guzzling her glass. Carter swigs from his share of the champers and twinkles, "We gonna take this old girl out for a spin, or what?" Gamma laughs, "Damn right," and successfully starts the car, puttering down the driveway at a blazing 2 mph. Is it wrong that I'm rooting for her to drive it into the birdbath?
Last, and certainly least, is Mark Greene. His day begins inside the radiology lab, where he's getting a brain scan to make sure everything's been successfully removed. Let's hope the Grim Reaper's got an itchy trigger finger gripping his scythe. Mark faux-casually wants to know how the readout looks, but the technician insists that he isn't qualified to give an opinion. "See anything bad?" Mark chirps.