Max thinks a shape-shifter alien killed Joey -- apparently, there were two of them, but one died. So there's one left. Finally, something that makes sense. Two minus one equals one. I follow. Liz says, "How do you know. That he's not gonna try and kill you too." And then she looks like she made a no-no in her pants. Max knows it's risky, but he feels like he needs to contact his son. Whoops, lost again. Liz, quick on the uptake, says, "You have to contact your son. And the shape-shifter is the only one who might know how," summing things up poorly, and clarifying nothing. She finds her mark, steps forward, and drones, "Where do we start." Los Angeles. Duh.
She mopes over to the car and gets in, as though they're going to leave for Los Angeles this very second, without packing, even though they've been moving pretty slowly up to this point, and Max had time to change before meeting her. They argue about whether she'll go along, because she has a thing with her father (excuse me?) and because danger lurks. Liz says, "At least I've been to LA," to which Max replies, "I don't think Disneyland counts as LA." I can't even dredge up the energy to give that exchange the treatment it deserves, and I'm only ten minutes in. It's emotive music time, as Max says that he'll go alone, and Liz whines about staying behind, wondering what she should do, "Just go to class and pretend that everything's fine?" I swell with pride that she's actually managed to inflect a question, as Max assures her that she'll be along for every step of the way.
And go to class Liz does, apparently right away, where she gets a text message from Max ("MISS YOU ALREADY") on her Nokia cell phone while she's sitting in front of a giant Apple computer. The teacher interrupts Liz's reverie to inform her that she's been put on a team with Mr. Valenti and ask her what she thinks of them apples; Liz registers confusion, which I imagine is one of her few authentic emotions. The large-headed, helmet-coiffed gentleman next to her stage-whispers, "Say yes," so Liz says, "Yes." Good Liz. I'm guessing Helmethead is Kyle Valenti. The teacher explains that "the job of the investigative journalist is to tell the truth no matter how uncomfortable or unpleasant that may be," and writes "the truth" on the blackboard for the deaf children in the room. She wants the class to take some big-ass cameras (what, they couldn't get some company to whore themselves and donate digital ones?) and go out and find some truth. I can't. I won't. I will: The truth is out there. Over on a better network.
A man suddenly shows up at the classroom door and begins communicating in the ancient dialect of "gesture and facial expression" to Kyle, who appears to understand since he rises and starts to walk out of the room. Kyle then speaks a bit of "point and look serious" to the teacher, who nods. Kyle and the man then begin discussing whatever serious issue brought him to the school. WHILE THEY ARE STANDING IN THE DOORWAY. RIGHT WHERE EVERYONE CAN HEAR THEM. Maybe it's just me, but if you need to talk to somebody about something that merits ambiguous sign language, then you're probably looking for a bit of privacy. Guess there wasn't enough in the budget for "Hallway."