Finally, a shot of Jim in what appears to be a compromising, lap-dance-receiving pose finds Taudrey leaning down close to him and, giving as much possible credence to the stage direction "just try and be a good actress just this once, okay?", whispers, "We don't sleep past seven here." As she says this, the one fluttering eye of Jim Prufrock becomes the whole sleepy head of Jim Prufrock, head on the pillow in his bed at Martha's Boarding House. Thankfully, the dancing midget in the room with the red curtains remains appropriately off-stage, as everybody knows he doesn't appear for the first time until the end of Episode Three. Martha herself bangs on the Love Boat-portal-sized window to Jim's room, brazenly ignores the "Get out my biz-natch you crazy, crazy bitch, and oh yes please do not disturb" placard hanging from the doorknob, and calls repeatedly, "We don't sleep past seven here!" Jim calls back a distracted "I'm up, Ma," and leaps out of bed like his Keepin' The Faith haircut has for some horrific reason burst into flames or, worse, ceased to keep the faith. He leaps across the room to indicate his high levels of awake-itude, his matching blue flannel pajamas so spiffy and lightly starched the only reason to wear them is if you're convinced you're going to get woken up by the giant Nutcracker you just got for Christmas to dance around your living room in front of a paying audience, and you want to make a good impression on the sugar plum fairies. Otherwise, it's called sweatpants and a t-shirt from a 1990 Erasure tour. He promises Martha that he's awake, and she tut-tuts, "I don't care for shiftless lay-abouts." He apologizes, and she advises, "Mr. Prufrock? Don't let it happen again." At wacky B&Bs in Push, Nevada, checkout time is always Quirky O'Clock.

It's 7:07 AM on a bedside clock whose loud ticking indicates that the time might actually change one day. Novel. Jim stumbles over to his telephone, drops it on the desk in a touch I rather enjoy, dials up the Tertiary Characters Department, and waits for a disaffected voice to answer, "Hello, IRS." He announces himself as Jim, and Grace bids him a cool "Good morning, Mr. Prufrock" in that "even though you're out of the office, I'm still here on time, so thanks for checking up on me at 7:07, jerk" kind of way, flips the page in her Cosmo to the inevitable "Is Your Boss A Jerk" quiz, and has cause to continually answer "D." Jerk alert! He continues on with the day's big news: "I need you to get a message to Ira for me. I think he was expecting me home today. I talked to him the other day about the Push, Nevada case. Could you tell him that…tell him that…I witnessed a murder yesterday. Someone murdered Silas Bodnick, the very man I've been investigating." We cut back to the office to note that Grace is taking the message from Jim's desk, because his computer has the more updated version of IM (the one where you can see when the other person is typing! It's like living inside of their mind!) and because he's always stealing her goddamn Cosmos. She shoots back a rather skeptical "okay," and when Jim asks after her tone, she divulges, "Mr. Glassman asked about you first thing this morning. He was with someone from the Provo office. He seemed…consternated." But as Gal Thursday continues with her filibuster, Jim's attention is diverted across to the West Wing, where he spies Taudrey in the process of removing her dress from behind open Venetian blinds. He quickly pulls his attention back to the phone and tells Grace that Ira can call him in Push if he needs to discuss the matter further. Grace adds that Jim's ex-wife called, but didn't leave a message. Jim looks back at the shades, but a curtain has come down where Taudrey once stood, a note taped to the front reading, "Meet me tonight @ Sloman's."