A glittering, colourful shot of one of those fibre-optic sculptures. I think. Or it's an artsy representation of Luke's hallucinations, which…whatever. I tried to establish whether or not marijuana is a hallucinogen but I got results -- in almost equal parts -- that indicated it definitely is, definitely is not, or is a very mild hallucinogen. So I don't know. I don't use it, so I can't really argue very strenuously on the basis of personal experience. However, Luke seems to be going through a textbook list of all possible reactions, and not stinting with the helpings of anxiety/distrust/fear/panic/paranoia. He's sitting on the bed, clutching a blanket and looking anxious when the phone rings. He looks at it: "It's Grace again." This time, he thinks Grace is talking to him from the screen: "Dude, answer your phone." Frink laughs his ass off. Luke concludes, "She definitely knows. She saw the broadcast." Friedman, curled up over on a bean bag with some snacks: "Dude, there was no broadcast." Luke wonders who else knows. The phone keeps ringing. Luke: "Man, my heart is beating like it's trying to get out of my chest, dude. Maybe there was something in that stuff, man! Maybe it was laced!" Friedman assures him there was nothing in it; he's fine, his Uncle Herb is fine: "His sight even improved!" Luke insists his heart is beating too hard: "Listen: la-dub, la-dub, la-dub…oh my God, I think it skipped a dub." Friedman tells him he's flipping out: "Chill."

The walls and furniture literally start to close in on Luke, as Friedman tells him to breathe: "People have been smoking weed forever, yo. Breathe." As the walls get closer, Luke stands up, hollering: "Neurotransmitters shutting downbraininrevolt!" as he rushes toward the window. Of course, he crashes right into it and falls back onto the floor. Friedman peers over him with concern. Luke, breathless and incredulous: "What do you like about this, Friedman?" Friedman: "Nothing, anymore." Luke, sweetie: Reality is for people who can't handle drugs. Come over here and keep me company. And I guess that's about it for these two outcastafarians. As televisual anti-drug messages go, it's not the worst I've ever seen: nobody was killed, poisoned, or raped; nobody committed suicide; nobody got arrested, robbed or beaten; nobody was brain-damaged (much); nobody really got hurt. Nobody's car was wrecked, nobody's house burned down, nobody got expelled from school, nobody cheated on anybody. And (so far, at least) nobody (including us) has had to endure some insufferable, moralizing lecture. Cripes, nobody even got grounded. Pretty mild for network TV, really. In fact, you could almost construe it as little more than this: "Drugs: probably not a good idea for the high-strung."