Zip! We're at St. Big Hospital, Small Tax Base. Unser's in the chapel, staring at the devotional candles. He stammers to Gemma, "I'm trying to remember how to do this." Naturally, Gemma is disinclined to offer any spiritual insights, so she quips, "You put the flame to the wick." Unser lights a candle, and Gemma gently asks, "You stopped going to your church?" Unser says, "When you're buried in your own shit, Sacred Heart seems a little out of reach." Wow, he is really punishing himself for the choices he made with SAMCRO, isn't he? Gemma continues gently, "You gotta believe in something, Wayne." When Unser caustically asks Gemma what she believes in, she says she's in the same place she's always at. Unser says, "No, you're not, sweetheart. We want to believe that. But the older we get, the further away we get from who we think we are." And, it is implied, the closer we get to the ugly reality of who we really are. Gemma chews on that a moment, then asks, "We done here, Confucius? Let's go."

Yes, by all means: Let's go back to last week's wacky subplot. Gemma is still hung up on finding those letters Maureen tucked into Jax's luggage. She barrels into Tara's office and commands Unser to act as her lookout (he is indignant). As Gemma futzes around inside, we see what's going on in the corridor: Roosevelt and his (presumed) wife come out of a doctor's office and the woman collapses onto a chair. Roosevelt murmurs how sorry he is, and he coaxes her up out of the chair and down the hall. This does not go unnoticed by Unser, who creeps down the hall to see with whom the Roosevelts were consulting. The answer: Hoyt Willmott, MD, reproductive fertility specialist. Poor Roosevelt: like his job isn't giving him enough trouble, he and his wife have to deal with the insanity of infertility and its treatment. Anyway, Unser's spying lets Margaret waltz right past him and into Tara's office, where she surprises Gemma.