Paul tells Adam this is his "summer cut"; Adam's not impressed. He's more interested in a fishing trip to Gull Lake, like his friend: Paul and Adam, just the boys. Just us, again, just Adam once again trying to hold the family together and keep his world in one piece.

"With Mom it'd be all, Let's pose for pictures! Let's eat nutritious meals for dinner because we can't have..." The game they always play. Adam's father turns on him, shuts him down, ends the game: Anywhere they go, Cathy comes with them. Adam's confused, his ally a fifth column, and somewhere in the middle of his stuttering explanations -- "Because your mother has camping recipes? That she really is eager for us to try?" -- he realizes he can't do it. It has eclipsed everything. Cathy deserves to be indulged.

Paul evicts their son from the car eight blocks from the mall, without ever shifting into drive; Adam can find his own cleats. It's the summertime, though the end is drawing near; you can always use the exercise. The space where he held his son so tightly against him, he needs to breathe out and create a space for Cathy's lies. He swears he's sorry, but when he drives away he doesn't look back.

Sean comes to Rebecca's hotel room grinning wolfishly; she's distracted by his beauty but even moreso by her story: She's asked for a transfer, to Minneapolis. "I'm moving here," she whispers. Because somebody might love her.

Sean's horrified, desperate to stop this conversation somehow by having it. He asks her, again and again, why she's moving to Minneapolis. She gives him several throat-clearing reasons -- the area, needing a change -- before giving him the answer they both want and both dread. Rebecca means to Sean a way of getting back at the world; Sean means to Rebecca a way to finally enter it. Her feelings are stung before he opens his mouth.

He's here, and not here. And only for now. "I could hop a train at any second, or flow like the river down south, or wherever..." Somebody loved her, she thinks. She thought. Rebecca lawyers up. "You got me a mug that says Welcome To Minnesota," she says, feeling stupid as she says it. The way the evidence looks in the light; the way it eclipsed everything when she was alone ten minutes ago. Arguing this fight with herself: "What was I supposed to infer from that?"

"I found that mug in the dumpster! You're supposed to infer from that that the person who threw that mug away didn't love it here. So why the hell should you move?" She shifts from adrenaline to anger, and to truth: "I'm not asking you for a fucking ring," she says, seeing him suddenly the way you always do.