New York. Marin is feeding the fucking bird on her fire escape when her phone rings. It's Patrick, and Marin's on the air. He tells her about his big Thanksgiving dinner (which news she totally ignores, by the way), and asks how the book meetings are going. She says that she has a lot of options, and just needs to make a choice. We cut to Jack, listening to the radio in his office, as Marin says that "having options makes choosing hard." Jack puts on his vest, and just happens to find the New Yorker in the inside pocket. Patrick tells Marin to go with her gut, and as Jack studies the magazine, Marin says that it's hard to know what's right when you're being deluged with advice from everyone else around you. Jack drops the issue into a drawer and stomps away from Marin's nasal twang.
Marin and Jane get ready for their Thanksgiving dinner, smugly smugging about how great it is to prepare a meal in New York when some other poor schmuck catches the turkey and drops it off for you at Citarella. The bird shows back up on the fire escape, pecking on the window, and Jane hurries over, telling Marin that it isn't a pigeon, it's a dove, and that there's a number on a ring around its ankle. Shouldn't a writer have, like, sharply honed powers of observation? Anyway, Marin calls the number and gets a nonplussed guy who says that the dove is one of a pair, released at a wedding the previous week. The dove should be able to find her way back to the coop, but she's confused by the noise of the city. The guy tells Marin to put the bird in a shoebox and release her in a park. Marin reports the instruction to Jane, who snips that they're on their way to a book party that night: "And it's not BYO...bird." Jane, I would like you so much better if you weren't being a warmed-over Carrie Bradshaw all the time.