Cut to a father-daughter surfing lesson. He coaches her as she prepares to catch a wave; when she stands shakily on the board and yelps in delight, Mark throws his arms up in the air. "YES!" he screams.

Night. Heartbreak Hotel. Rachel sits on the floor between two beds, crying and wiping her eyes. Then she rises and crosses into Mark's room, peeking out on the balcony. "Dad?" she says loudly. Mark doesn't stir. Because he's dead! Or sleeping. Either suits Rachel's purpose -- she wants to steal his pills and feed them to local babies. Furtively, she tips one into her hand and then skips to the mini-bar, which is really just a small tray of liquor bottles sitting on the dresser. Oh, as if. Rachel snags some gin and swills down the pill, then takes another sip for good measure, without so much as a grimace -- or, indeed, any reaction to the booze she's just chugged. It's as if she was drinking -- gasp -- prop water. Way to act, Hallee. Rachel then trots elsewhere, presumably to fill up the bottle with water, and we notice that Mark is alive, awake, and watching from the balcony. He enters the room and stares sadly at his medicine table. His whole "I Was Down With The Chronic Back When I Hated My Dad" allegory was, it seems, not obvious enough. We fade to commercial wondering if a frying pan to the head might make things clearer to Rachel.

Red Jeep. "Imagine," by John Lennon, plays on the radio as Mark drives down a long, tree-lined driveway and up to a gorgeous, sprawling house. "You know this [song], right?" Mark smirks. Rachel glares daggers through his glasses and petulantly puts on her headphones. They pull up and park in front of a retreat house Mark rented for the week. Rachel freaks out at the idea of all Mark, all the time, at some strange haven of calm. "Relax," Mark says. "You're going to love it." The Hawaii Chamber of Commerce is having spasms of ecstasy right now.

Naturally, Rachel finds fault with these accommodations. She's in Hawaii, she's in a huge house on the beach, she's getting out of school for an unexplained period of time, and she's got her own room. But there's no television set, and so Princess Entitlement flounces off to confront the evil King Tumor. "There's no TV in my room," she complains. Mark calmly unpacks and doesn't miss a beat. "Right," he says. "There isn't one." Rachel's jaw falls. "Is there a pool?" she quizzes. "The ocean," Mark answers. "The hotel was getting too expensive. The mini-bar charges alone were starting to add up." He fires a very pointed look at Rachel, whose ungrateful little tongue is rendered speechless just in time to save it from being cut out. By me. Mark tells her to unpack so that she's free to help with dinner. "Is there a phone?" Rachel sputters. Mark shrugs. "What are we supposed to do?" she panics. "Swim, walk on the beach, surf..." Mark lists serenely. Rachel is boiling over, and stalks out of the room. What a complete crazy asshole. Who could be that fucking crabby in an island paradise with no Elizabeth in sight? Man. She deserves a trip to Hawaii about as much as O.J. Simpson deserves to breathe the sweet air of freedom. Mark watches her leave and smiles slightly, as if her tantrum counts as a step forward in their relationship.