Colby's in a hospital room, an oxygen mask over his face. Looking at him through those glass walls that give no FBI patient any privacy, Megan tells David that Colby's vitals have stabilized, but it will be a few days before the drugs are completely out of his system. David just says, "Until I saw that needle sticking out of his chest, I was sure he was guilty." Megan tells David he saved Colby's life. "I still don't know who he is," David says, shaking his head. "I didn't know him when he was a spy and now he's the guy who pretended to be a spy who pretended to be my partner." "You coming in?" Megan asks. David's not ready to visit Colby yet. Megan pats David on the back and walks away. David just stares at Colby. Well, we know Charlie hasn't paid Colby a visit yet because there's no "GET WELL SOON! J" written in extra-thick Magic Marker on the walls.
The Eppes boys and Larry are at dinner in some open-air restaurant, and Larry is remarking on the welcome change from his monastic diet of carrots, broccoli, and coarse-grain bread. Don groans that he's stuffed. What's up with Charlie's t-shirt? It's like bloody writing carved into his chest. Totally inappropriate for such a nice restaurant. Of course, what can you expect from a guy who has such serious food-boundary issues. Alan announces that celebratory food always tastes better, and then raises his wine glass and toasts Colby Granger, wishing him a speedy recovery. Charlie adds, "To Don's instincts." "Yeah, and your trust metric," Don adds. Don't toast the trust metric, it only encourages it. "Sounds like a new chapter in the Mathematical Analysis of Friendship Dynamics," Alan adds. Larry's squintingly not familiar with that paper. "It was early Charlie Eppes," Alan says, jabbing a finger at his son. "Mathematics of friendship." "It was like a self-help manual for eggheads, right?" Don adds. Charlie responds to this ribbing by snapping out his white CLOTH napkin and saying, "You guys might be onto something." Alan and Don both rush to say they were kidding, but it's too late; Charlie is already desecrating yet another surface with his indelible scribblings. He's like the Hannibal Lecter of writing surfaces. But instead of keeping sharp objects away from him, it's any blank surface. "When he stays in hotels, I wonder if they have to charge him for the bathrobes. Terrycloth is not a good surface for doing math," the Evil Dr. Mathra observes.