Christopher's in bed when the phone rings. The machine picks it up, and his mother -- who has a smoker's rasp to rival Kim Carnes -- drones for him to pick up, she's worried about him. Christopher puts a pillow over his head. His mother goes on to say that she heard from Mrs. Jones that the Star-Ledger mentioned his name today in an article "with all those scumbags," and Christopher whips the pillow off of his head and springs out of bed.
"It's been awhile since we met for therapy," an older man with a terrible dark dye job says. "Jason -- how's Bard?" Pan over to Melfi, Jason, and Richard sitting on the other side of the man's desk. Jason, sporting a fug-tastic sweater vest, volunteers that he's moving into a smoke-free dorm. "And how do we feel about that?" grunts the doctor. "I'm more interested in discussing what we mentioned before," Richard says impatiently, so the doctor asks how Jason feels about Melfi treating "this Patient X." Jason smiles that he really doesn't care. Why do they still come to family therapy, anyway? The kid's in college, the parents got divorced -- cut the cord already. The doctor suggests, "as a colleague," that she drop the patient. Melfi doesn't answer; Richard mentions that, after a recent session, Melfi had to acknowledge that she'd seen the "sub-human" side of Tony. "I take it you were frightened?" the doctor asks. Melfi admits to feeling "frightened, revolted," and Richard snipes, "At long last, appropriate emotions." "Oh, for chrissake, Richard," she grumbles, and to the doctor, "you too, Sam. When did we become so afraid to get our hands dirty?"