A parking garage. Marty has a cool new uniform! He's got epaulets. He gets into his car, and The Cape is in the back seat. After some gun-waving, Vince tells him that The Lich is real, and that's enough to make Marty listen to him. He tells Marty that his (Marty's) family will be there, and he needs to stop the parade. Marty is thinking about it. This show's really in love with the idea of making enemies work together, isn't it?
Dana lies on her bed and insists to the air that she wasn't flirting. It was just a friendly impulse! She's sorry! Sob, sob. "You were always so damn jealous. I feel you around me. I feel you judging me." Man, that's kind of creepy. I don't like the overtones here, you know? If Vince was so jealous that even after he's dead, she's still afraid of him? Ick.
The Orchard Convalescent Home and Sanitarium. Orwell picks a lock and goes up some stairs. The woman who sent her the email greets her with the standard, "You're a woman!" Orwell claims that the name is Carrie and that Orwell sent her. The woman hands over a record of admission for Ronald Recchand, which is an anagram for Conrad Chandler. I don't feel like checking, so I'll just take her word for it. Her name, incidentally, is Netta. I don't think that's an anagram for anything. The attending physician on the record of admission, incidentally, is Preston Holloway. That's the name that the tall guy in the hat gave at the beginning of the episode. And while I've got this thing freeze-framed, you might like to know that the "City" is Palm City and "State" is blank.
Orwell is directed to Room 237, and told to be quiet, as "Ronald" isn't permitted visitors. When Orwell enters, "Ronald" says she's in the wrong room. He's sweating. He also has a cool armillary sphere, but that's probably not relevant. He complains that his legs don't work, and Orwell opens a window for him. He tells her that he hasn't been there too long, and that he's getting out soon. Orwell looks skeptically at the crib in the room, which suggests that he's been there his entire life. There's a book about the Lindbergh baby, which gives "Ronald" an excuse to talk about how he envies the Lindbergh baby for getting twenty months with his family. Orwell bumps a stack of newspapers and "Ronald" freaks out about how they were carefully organized. Orwell is getting impatient, although not half as impatient as me, and says, "You are Conrad. Aren't you?" "Ronald" avoids the question: "You need to leave. You don't know what they could do." He shouts about how this is his private room and that he didn't invite her. She tells him that he could stand up and walk out, but if he won't, she can't help. He looks blankly at her, and asks, "What was the name of the person you were looking for? Was it Conrad?" Orwell is despondent.