"He died when we were a year old," Mo-Mo offers, and she frowns sadly. "See, now I want to say I'm sorry again." He gets it, but keeps watching the family. "Do you remember him?" He reflects. "You know, I do. I remember being with someone, you know? Like I came into the world with someone. I didn't come here alone, so. You know. Being alone-alone is hard for me. It doesn't feel bad, it just feels... wrong." It should feel like Thor, you idiot.
And does he ever think about his twin now, what he would be like? Every day, he does, because every day he is exactly the same amount of alone. She makes an aggressively sad face and he changes the subject to her hair. "...No, that's worse," he finally says, and stops playing with it, and walks away.
In the school hallway, they discuss the fridge -- fixed, by Kevin -- and how if it breaks down again they'll have to move into the bar and eat beef jerky. Jackie distractedly needles him for pitying the jerky vendor, continuing to buy from him. "Kevin, you are such a softy." He misses her; he wraps his arms around her with a "great comeback to that." It's cute, and she laughs while peeling him away. "We are in a school! Please!" They are so easy together, it's so nice. Darn that Vicodin. She remembers the socks she bought him -- Gold Toes, his favorite just like my Dad's, and his Dad before him -- and pulls them out of her purse. He kisses her again, and behind his back a text comes in: Me so horny -- Eddie. Barf. She rolls her eyes but when he asks what's wrong, she just says she lost a patient.
They head into Grace's classroom, grab-assing all the while, and when they sit down it's sobering: three professionals lined up, staring at them in their child-sized desks like a play's about to start, or a test. It is. Both are. "Her grades are good," the teacher begins, "But we're a little concerned about some of her creative work. I've asked Connie, our school nurse, and district psychologist Skip Nennerine to weigh in." Kevin smiles at Kip, who's clearly uncomfortable about everything always, and asks how he's doing. "I have bursitis," he replies. "I believe your daughter Grace is experiencing signs of generalized anxiety disorder." Jackie jumps five notches to Bewildered, skipping over Confused and Dismissive, too eager to prove she doesn't know anything about this because there's nothing to know about.