D'Angelo, looking quietly terrified, drives; beside him, Wee-Bey babbles that he just does what "they" tell him to, and that it's not to him to ask why. D'Angelo tries to interrupt, but Wee-Bey barrels on: "Now it come to this crazy shit." D'Angelo works his jaw. Wee-Bey directs him to turn into an alley, and D'Angelo drives a few feet and brakes, resigned. Wee-Bey yells at him for stopping, so D'Angelo swallows and rolls forward. After a moment, they stop. Wee-Bey hops out, and when D'Angelo stays in his seat, watching, Wee-Bey turns back: "Inside, man. Let's go." D'Angelo sullenly complies, Wee-Bey complaining, "We ain't got time for this shit." D'Angelo allows himself to be led to a door, though he freezes on the threshold until Wee-Bey pokes his head out and urges him AGAIN to follow. With a dark expression, D'Angelo complies, and reluctantly walks ahead of Wee-Bey, clearly expecting the worst. He stands in the dark a moment, starting to sob, before Wee-Bey snaps the light on: "Check it out, man," he says proudly. D'Angelo's grief changes to shock as he looks around at a room full of big, illuminated aquaria, each full of tropical fish. "I need you to feed them while I'm gone," Wee-Bey explains, and starts to demonstrate each tank's food idiosyncrasies. D'Angelo is still staring at Wee-Bey like he thinks he's concealing his imminent execution in the most elaborate ruse ever. "You see?" says Wee-Bey. "They ain't no problems. Just beautiful as hell, Dee." He leaves D'Angelo to ponder his tropical fantasia, saying he needs to go pack. D'Angelo, confused, asks where they're going, and Wee-Bey impatiently explains that D'Angelo's going to take him to Philadelphia and bring the truck back. "Philly, yo?" asks D'Angelo. "We shot a narco, Dee," says Wee-Bey simply. D'Angelo wonders if Tetra is as tasty as tuna.
On her couch at home, Cheryl sits alone, listening to bluesy music and crying, because apparently none of her friends insisted upon staying with her because they suck. Her finger locates the highlighter stain. That's right, Cheryl -- focussing on the bad times might make you less sad. But then she starts sobbing even harder, possibly thinking that soon she'll need to get a new girlfriend AND a new couch.
Detail office, apparently the next day. Bubbs is reporting that no one of note has been in the Pit -- not Wee-Bey, Savino, Little Man, nor "the Barksdale kid." McNulty listens to Bubbs with a phone to his ear. "You think it was them that did it?" Bubbs asks McNulty, who nods briefly in response. On the other end of the phone, Bunk says that Wee-Bey, Savino, and Little Man are the people Homicide's been hearing about too; in the foreground, Cole types on an actual computer, possibly as young as mid-'90s. Fan-cee. Bunk tells him about the warrants they're seeking. McNulty fingers Wee-Bey and Little Man as the shooters: "I feel it, Bunk." Bunk replies, "Right now we need our girl to wake up and say so." McNulty hangs up and tells Bubbs, "You did good." Smiling humbly, Bubbs starts to tell McNulty, "The situation's different. I mean, for me, I'm--" "Mount up," says Daniels, stepping on Bubbs's revelation. Man, bad fucking week for Bubbs, you guys! McNulty grabs his vest and a shotgun, half-apologetically telling Bubbs he has to go, and saying that Prez will get him a ride. Left alone, Bubbs unrolls his twenty. There's still time to spend it on a couple of pairs of cheap trendy summer wedges at Payless instead, Bubbs! Come on! Wedges!