Right. It's hot. Jim's infection seems to be worsening and his skin slightly more reflective, but he stops near the outside of the Versailles when he sees Hick dropping off a number of parcels at the casino. Cut to Martha's Quick 'n' Go, where Jim enters his room to find Martha sitting on his bed with a bowl of vinegar and water (oh, my God, she came there to douche him, didn't she?), informing him, "I'm gonna take care of that back." Cut to The Least Erotic Sponge Bath Since Misery, Martha sterilizing the wound a bit as Jim winces in pain. She explains that she was never much a fan of tattoos, and she and Jim have a quick bonding laugh over it all. Jim notes, "My father would roll over in his grave," and Martha asked when he died. "1986," we learn, when Jim was twelve. And the Mets won the World Series in seven harrowing games against the devastated Boston Red Sox. Sigh. Good times, good times. Oh, and also something about Jim's dead daddy. When he informs Martha that it happened when he was twelve, we follow Jim to another flashback of the red-soaked shot of the tire. Martha asks if they were close, and Jim waxes like he's on the clock and on the couch: "Yes and no. He was somewhere else a lot of the time, and even when he was home, he was still somewhere else." Martha indicates with The Excess Conviction Of Awkward Foreshadowing that Jim's dad did indeed love his son. Just then, Martha insists that Jim "lay down now," leaning over him and insisting he try and get some sleep. She grabs his one remaining "JAP" handkerchief out from his clenched hand and holds it up next to one she produces with the initials of "AMP." She tears up slightly and whispers, "Never know when one of them will come back to you." Dude. It's been nine seconds. He's not even kind of asleep.