Down in the courtyard T-Bag's crowing about being back in business, and Bellick's had enough of a miraculous recovery from his near-death pummeling to ardently insist he's still in on the escape. T-Bag hisses, "For what? Getting your ass kicked?" Bellick insists, "I'm in. Or I shout it from the rooftops." T-Bag gives him a look that can be interpreted in a wide variety of ways, You pick which one.
Meanwhile, on the outside...Linc is taking Sofia home. (I think?) They park near the French embassy and Linc tells Sofia to sit tight. She does, albeit grudgingly. Linc struts back out with a small brown paper bag, and asks if Sofia can make it home from there. She says she can, being only two blocks away. Linc hands over the paper bag and says, "If he doesn't take you, I will." Then he awkwardly raises his eyebrows and beats feet. Someone's got a cru-ush, someone's got a cru-ush... Once he's gone, Sofia pulls out an Eiffel Tower keychain and smiles to herself.
Back in the prison, Mahone's fussing slightly over Whistler as the latter tends to his wounds. Michael is sitting on a nearby bunk, immersed in a silent brood. Whistler turns to Michael and says, "After all the times you wanted me to prove I was a real fisherman? I should have been asking if you were a real engineer. That could have been one of us buried down there." Michael angrily says, "I'll do better next time." Whistler catches something in his look; so does Mahone. The former FBI agent announces his intent to salvage some braces, and Whistler, grateful for an excuse to flee, offers to do likewise. He takes off. Mahone lingers, and catches Michael deftly twiddling with the bolt he removed immediately before letting Sammy and the boys in. He comes back, and Michael gives him a fierce glare. Mahone says, "It never gets any easier." Michael looks at Mahone; his face is a study in fury. It's got to be a terrible thing when the man who killed your father is the only one to offer empathy over the burden of knowing you took another person's life.
Michael's distracted by two things: a pending visitor and a plea from Splenda to let him tag along on the escape. Michael says, "You don't want any part of this," and heads out to see who's visiting.
Meanwhile, on the outside ... Sofia is laying on her bed at home, playing with her new keychain. She sits up and turns over his picture of Whistler. Then, determined to wash that man right out of her life, she goes to their shared closet and begins taking out his clothes. EagleofTruth on the forums rightly called out my storage fixation, and here is more proof of the terrible madness that reigns in my household: the first time I saw this scene, I involuntarily winced because all their clothes are on the wire hangers like you get from the dry cleaners, I am in thorough sympathy with the late Miss Joan Crawford on this issue: no wire hangers! Use a good thick plastic or wood and give your clothes plenty of breathing room. Wire hangers are the devil's mobile-makers. After throwing all Whistler's clothes on the floor, Sofia notices a packed black duffel bag on the bottom of the closet. And here...here is where my organizational-related madness takes the reins. Sofia lives in a studio apartment. I have lived in a studio apartment and I currently live in a house that's not much larger. I know exactly what is in the house and where it is; this is not hard when you've got less than 900 square feet in which to work. That a person living in a tiny apartment is not exquisitely aware of everything crammed in the one closet she has to share? I call horsepuckey. Any sane person would have taken care of that closet the week after Whistler went behind bars, reasoning that his stuff could be stashed in the duffel and tossed under the bed, the better to give her more space for the clothes she'd be hanging on decent wooden or plastic hangers. And if Sofia had thought like that, she'd have discovered something a lot earlier: that the duffel bag has a hidden bottom and something is in it.