Back at the Connor Compound, John goes over Sarkissian's computer while Sarah watches over his shoulder. She starts to rub his neck, much to his annoyance. He explains that there are about a thousand useful files on Sarkissian's computer, each of which takes about five minutes to decrypt, and he's on number thirty-seven. "You do the math," he says. She tells him to let her know when he has something, and walks out, past Derek. He strolls in, and asks how John is holding up ("I'm all right.") Derek looks out the window, and says, "So, it's your birthday." John asks how he knows, and Derek says, "I celebrated your thirtieth with you." John smiles and asks how it was. "You got drunk as skunk," laughs Derek. He wants to buy John a beer, and John points out that he's underage, although I think if John's got a birth certificate he ought to get himself a nice legal 24-year-old's ID. Derek changes the offer to that of an ice cream, but insists John take a break from decrypting the files. "It's your birthday. When there's things to celebrate, they should be celebrated."
Derek and John stroll through a park licking ice cream, and Derek figures Sarah's never actually killed anybody. According to him, she's got murder in her eyes, but her heart is pure. They sit down at a picnic table, and nearby are two boys, one younger than the other, playing baseball. You don't think...nah. Anyway, Derek's talking about how it's easy, when you stay in the beautiful world long enough, to think it's always going to be this way. "You realize you'll do whatever it takes to keep from watching it burn again." Happy friggin' birthday, John: your mom's too much of a wuss to kill anyone, plus this will all be fire and ash in just four years.