"She never draws a sun in any of her skies," Skip continues, and school nurse Connie picks up the ball: "Sometimes that can be a sign." Of what, exactly? The pretty young slip of a teacher opens her eyes wide: "Children tend to draw optimistically. Trees are huge, skies are blue. It's how they see the world." Jackie won't give them a fucking inch, of course, so she has to actually say the words out loud. "Are there any problems at home?" Not at home. Kevin and Jackie put on more of the elaborate Peyton Show, ducking their heads and crawling over each other to lovingly say to both each other and the three adults across from them, simultaneously, that they have no problems at all, Grace has no problems at home or anywhere else, they are a perfect family, what is the deal.

The teacher finally gets a little firm on them, having had enough nicey-nice. "She circles her desk. Three times, before she sits down." It floats in the air. "She told me it's so the planes don't fall out of the sky," Connie says, once it's sunk in. "Okay, you know what?" Jackie starts, scared to death, and Kevin jumps in, putting himself between her and them: "How do you think we should address this problem? I mean, if it is a problem?" Skip offers a list of therapists, to their horror, and Connie suggests their eventual course of treatment in the happiest, chirpiest voice she can manage while still stuck in a room with the rabid wolverine Jackie is becoming right before their eyes: "An age-appropriate, low-dose anti-anxiety medicine..." Jackie levels mean, bloody New Yorker eyes at poor Connie: "-- That's enough outta you."

Now clearly approaching Threat Level Midnight, Kevin gathers his shit and stands up in a commanding way, ending the interview. Jackie can't help herself. The makeup didn't help. "Thanks for your time. It's amazing to me, you think a kid has a problem, you just make him take a pill? That's nice work."

Jackie Peyton is a woman who carries the world on her back, and takes pills so it'll be easier, so it will hurt less. So that she can continue to save the world and keep the planes in the sky. And it scares her to death, and it makes her do gross things. It makes her break promises to herself, over and over. And the reason for this, she knows, is her own weakness. If she could be more superhuman, if she could grit through the pain the way those patients do every day in the ER -- she's seen them -- she wouldn't need the pills. It shouldn't be that easy. You don't just feed it with a pill. Not if you love the person you're feeding. And so there is not a problem here, because she's smarter than everybody on earth, which is great until you're in a place where it means she's smarter than you. And then she's all alone, with the complete-absence-of-a-problem that's managing to kill her daughter, despite not existing, anyway.