It's sleepytime in the Gilded Gym. A.G. is wearing jammies with feet. Kidding. Dr. M. is watching TV and A.G wanders out, all sleepy and rubbing his eyes to watch too. The "plague" has spread to the West Coast and Japan. "It's starting to eat the ink off money. There's rioting in the big cities." A.G. says, "Wanna sleep? Can you sleep? My terrarium is your terrarium. We can take shifts." Then he pats Dr. M. on the shoulder but there's no response.
Now we get a nice little montage of Dr. M. collecting blood from A.G. and examining it under a microscope. Some ersatz Dave Matthews Band music starts up (Lyrics: "If the key don't work you can knock on the door") and I leave to barf. When I come back, Dr. M. is printing out a piece of paper from which the print fades right off. He crumples it up and A.G. picks it up and uncrumples it. Pathos, I guess. Or fishcakes.
Lisa's in bed. Heather asks to come in with her. "Did they cancel school again? They shouldn't let a thing like no books stop them from teaching. They still have blackboards. And lunch. And Gym." Yeah, having no books doesn't stop the Philadelphia public school system from opening up shop. Heather says, "It's Sunday." Oh. Lisa says, "Your dad would have hated this..." because he loved to read the paper and curl up with a book so much. Um, I think John Goodman would have loved to curl up with a nice steak and a baked potato, but I could be wrong. No, I'm not. Heather is bummed by what she just saw on TV. Is it that they're renewing Now and Again, sweetie? That would be a bummer. No: The president has made a new law that any existing book left can't be read to yourself, but must be read aloud to a group of ten or more people. As if. Or is that supposed to be fascistic? Since these recaps aren't even read by a group of ten or more people, I henceforce decree that this will be my last one. But I'll finish the episode for you, my ten readers.
Heather continues about the new public reading decree, "If/when the book fades, technically someone will be around to remember it. It's not a book; it's a memory. Like when someone dies, the world is different now. You get up in the morning and move on. I'm gonna tell my kids about these things we used to have: Books." This is kind of sad; Heather's equating the loss of books to the death of her father. After a loss, all you can do is pick yourself up and try to continue. It's hard and painful, like writing these recaps. It's a pretty fatalistic sentiment and I can totally relate. Lisa holds her and says, "The world is different now. The world is different now."