Commercials. Please, Teri Hatcher, I will buy you a sandwich. I will buy you as many sandwiches as you want if you will promise to eat them. Frink and I spend the rest of the time reprising our perennial argument about whether we believe God creates avatars specifically for the purpose of communicating with Joan (me) or whether God inhabits existing people who later have no recollection of having been a PodGod (Frink).

Joan shuffles into the kitchen in her pyjamas. Kevin's doing some work at the table. She muses, "I'm thinking grease and salt. How about you?" Kevin: "Uh, I went with sugar and chemicals. I'm good." He puts something small and pink in his mouth; I think it's a cookie. As Joan opens up a big bag of chips, she asks why he's not with Lily: "[Did] she dump you?" Kevin pounds his fist lightly on his notepad and says, "You know, sometimes I do the dumping. I'm not always the dumpee." Joan: "Hm. Did you dump Lily?" Kevin: "Nobody got dumped! We both had to work." Sitting at the table, she replies, "Oh. So it's really just me that's all alone and pathetic." Kevin: "Pretty much." Joan: "What do you remember about me as a kid?" He remembers she once stuffed beans up her nose. Lord. My brother once shoved a Flintstone vitamin up his nose -- green, naturally. That was extra-charming once it started to dissolve and run down his face. I think my parents had to take him to the doctor to get it out. Joan: "Kev, seriously." He just chortles at the memory. She persists: "Was there anything special about me?" Kevin: "There was YaYa." Interesting. Frink and I thought of Yahweh right away, but also of Amber Tamblyn's upcoming part in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, an offshoot of The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood empire. And we also thought of Yahya, which is the Arabic name for the prophet John the Baptist, although the pronunciation isn't identical; you need to aspirate the H in Yahya. Anyway, good name. Joan doesn't know what he's talking about. Kevin explains that she had an imaginary friend named YaYa: "You were always talking to him. Mom had to pretend to make sandwiches for him. No one was allowed to sit in his chair. We had to make room for him in the car. You were totally obsessed with it, and you got really mad if anyone said he wasn't real." He says "really mad" like he's talking to a toddler. Joan, trying to keep her expression neutral, asks, "What did he look like?" Kevin: "You said he always was different. And sometimes he was a girl." Joan takes that in as Kevin continues, "Then, one day, when you were four…four or five, you announced he was gone. You said, uh, 'I can't see YaYa anymore.' You weren't sad, just matter-of-fact. Kind of like a sociopath." Kevin smirks, but Joan just looks troubled and avoids his gaze. He offers to tell her about the time she puked spaghetti all over the babysitter. Joan declines and says goodnight. As she walks out, Kevin calls, "It was in her hair!"