We are staring down the slanted headlights of a parked car. In the foreground, an exposed and very dead hand is slowly being buried in a shallow grave. I mean, I assume the hand isn't the only thing being dead or buried in this scene, but it's all we can see. Notice how people always bury people at night by the light of their headlights? It's on every Lifetime movie. It's gotten so that if I saw a non-moving car with its headlights on, I'd just think, "Huh, someone's burying a body." Although, maybe not so blasé. Maybe more "HUH, SOMEONE'S BURYING A BODY!!" Hawkins grunts as a few snowflakes swirl lightly around him, and finishes spooning dirt onto Sarah. So, remember how we saw news reports that this was supposed to be the "worst winter in decades"? And remember how people were turning into AARPcicles? And how the ground was so cold it was leaching all the heat from Skeet's body? Remember? Well, isn't it awesome how, in that Basement of Nuclear Disaster Magic Tricks, Hawkins had a self-heating spade to break up the frozen ground? I swear, that man thinks of everything.
Back at his house, Hawkins mops up blood with a red towel. Whether the towel was red to begin with or was once white but now is soaked with blood is left to our fertile imaginations. The liquid Hawkins now squeezes into a bucket by the full light of a bare lamp bulb is certainly quite cranberry juice-like in color. As Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon would shriek over at Demian's place, "GORE!" But hark! There's a knock at the door to disturb Hawkins's grisly chore. Hawkins quickly snaps off the light and pauses, contemplating whether he should get the door. The knocking comes again, more insistent this time. Hawkins hurriedly gathers up his rags and bucket, and brushes at his pants. Because bloodstains brush off? Did you learn nothing from Lady Macbeth? Hawkins walks toward the door.
Jericho Medical Center. Mom nags at April about whether or not she's getting enough sleep, because she looks tired. A diminutive woman in scrubs, and with a cap of smooth black hair, tells April about some patient who won't let anyone touch him but her. The diminutive woman identifies herself as a third-year Chicago University med student, who came in with the Branch Rogerian refugees. Although -- and this is how you know she's got spunk up the wazoo -- she tells April that she prefers "visitor" to "refugee." April apologizes and thanks her for helping out. "Don't thank me," says Med Student, her tone all but throwing "bitch, please!" hands. "I'm just working here because I get to sleep in a bed instead of the church basement. Where do I start?" April gestures around and tells her to take her pick of pneumonia, malnutrition, and hypothermia.