Helen brings Olive, who's wearing some stuff she picked up at Margaret Mead's yard sale, home in a wheelchair. Olive makes for the stairlift, saying she can take it from here. Which I very much doubt. Helen explains that Olive will be in the den, steering the chair there as she mentions that they're used to taking care of Kevin: "So we can help you out of bed, getting dressed…" Olive declares she'll find a way of getting herself dressed. Helen wisely lets that go for now. They're in the den, and Helen gestures to the bed, saying, "I know you like Africa, so I found the -- the blanket at a craft store. It's from Nigeria." A flash of awareness of Helen's kindness and effort crosses Olive's face, and she mutters, "Well, I guess it's better than the hospital. At least you people aren't trying to kill me." Well, not yet, but there's still more than half an episode left. Helen says they weren't trying to kill her. Olive's pulling stuff out of her bag as she complains, "The doctors parading in and out of my room, no one talking to each other…look at all the pills they gave me!" She hauls out a huge plastic bag full of pill bottles. "Look! Blood thinners, painkillers, antidepressants…insanity." She dumps them in the garbage. Helen: "You can't just throw them away! Your neurologist said that you have to --" She grabs them up. Olive: "He is twelve. I need an herbalist. I'm going to call Dr. Chin in San Francisco." Me: "You go, lady!" Frink tells me to settle down. Helen thinks she might want to discuss that with her neurologist. As she puts the bag of pills into the bedside drawer, Olive says, "Always afraid of doing the wrong thing, aren't you, Helen? Why are you so scared? Sometimes don't you want to just shove some stuff in a bag and take off?" Helen patiently reminds her that she has a family. Olive doesn't know what to say to that. Helen leaves.

Adam's shed. He sits at his workbench, listlessly playing with a paddleball thing as Joan prattles on with various instructions about how to deal with the cat. He seems good and bored. Joan tells him to leave the radio on when he's not there; Larry likes oldies. Adam: "Jane, it's all in the pamphlet. I promise I'll take really good care of him." Joan knows: "I've only had him for a few days and we were making really good progress, right, Larry? Larry: pss-pss-pss-pss!" He hisses at her. Joan turns to Adam saying, "His scratching has become less violent." Adam: "Cool." She looks at the sketch on his table, and a jar full of pickle juice and one pickle: "Pickle jar?" Adam: "Does it say 'pop art' to you?" Joan: "Definitely." Adam goes to Larry's cage, muttering, "I'm just gonna take an F." That's what he's really irritated about, not Joan's feline-related micromanagement. He opens the cage door and Joan's all over him, telling him not to do that because Larry will scratch him. But Adam reaches in and Larry plops himself down and allows Adam to pet him. Joan wants to know why Larry's not scratching. Adam: "He likes me." Joan: "Why?" Frink: "'Cause you're awesome." I dunno, Joan, maybe because he's so gentle and sweet? Honestly. If I weren't with someone just as wonderful, Joan's inability to appreciate Adam would make me hate her. As it is, I can afford to find her merely clueless. Adam: "I don't know." He keeps petting Larry, who's relaxed and purring. Joan huffs, annoyed.