Sarah's scared to death, hips moving like the ocean; Steve's eyes travel Jason's body in slow-motion, the stake in his hands, the muscles under his shirt: as though he is Jason and Jason's the vampire, for a moment, everything he wants and everything he wants to be. As though he could be Jason or fuck Jason or somehow both at once, blurring across state lines. Jason, standing over his wife with a wooden stake, screaming wordlessly. He is Amy and he is Eddie, for a moment, endlessly murdering and being murdered. Steve's the first to applaud.

The crowd goes wild: that's how you do it. That's where we're heading. Can't say it yet, can't see it yet, but that's where Steve's leading them. It's the reason Jason is the favorite, and precisely opposes the obvious reasons Luke knows they shouldn't love him. Inside the FOL is another Fellowship, an Army of the Light. And this is its first lieutenant, wrought on a spindle like Maryann's: desire and hatred and passion and love, fear and disgust, twisted together like the spectrum of visible light. Steve ejaculates while Jason falls back, through time: Amy drives the stake into Eddie's heart, and he is gone, and Jason's falling back like Sarah now, onto his back, face twisted in fear and sadness and betrayal. But on her face, none of these: it's a mirror of her husband's, in this moment. Where Jason's face is a mask of grief and loss, she sees only passion. "I'm so sorry," Jason says, tears rising in his throat, and she assures him she's okay. Honeycomb, he wasn't talking to you.

Terry loads the counter with meal after meal, plate after plate; he can no longer guarantee they're cooked through, there are so many. Arlene comes to the counter and checks him out: he's "sweating like a ice-water pitcher." He manages to look her in the eye: "I'm feeling the pressure, Arlene. I don't like feeling the pressure." They both know, what he means. She tells him to take a break and he says he can't, so she takes off her apron and heads back, shouting for Daphne. He burns himself and throws something down, yelping. "Give me your tongs," she says, and when he protests there's something hilarious in her voice, imperious, mothering: "Give me your toooooongs. Take a break." She sends Daphne out with the platters for table four, which of course Daphne can't identify (Remember how easily Amy learned it? She understood abandon.) but one withering, exasperated look from Arlene sends her out onto the floor anyway. They agree she's not working out, Terry and Arlene, and he notes that it's all going to table four: "What the hell's going on at table four?" he whispers, but we already know.