Willard lies weakly on the bed, with lots of machines that go bleep to convey that he is very sick and clawing at Heaven's door. Sherman sits on the bed and cracks, "So, did you really have a stroke, or are you just trying to get out of the rubber-chicken dinner at the Rotary Club?" Willard laughs and winces at the same time. See, he cooks those dinners.

Lou swaggers into the police station just as a gloomy couple skulks out. "What's with Mr. and Mrs. Prozac?" Lou smirks, certain he must write that down for when Ruby comes back, reads his list of "Funny Things I Said While You Were Presumed Dead," and runs right back into his bed. Molly sneers that they're Sandy Ellis's parents, and Lou is appropriately chagrined. She directs him to his desk, not without some wacky trickery: "Take your pick [of desks], as long as it's that one." She hands him the examiner's preliminary autopsy on Sandy, which shows nothing errant at all. Lou is startled at the sparseness of the report, to which Molly primly replies, "That's why they call it preliminary."

Oh, but we knew all along that Molly had something to hide. Elsewhere, she hands Donner the real report, the uncensored version, the one that talks about the...you know...wolf stuff. Sssh. Donner reads aloud that her heart and kidneys were missing, certain signs of predation. "I was afraid of this," he frets. It seems a serial killer terrorized Wolf Lake back in the late '60s, wasting nine people before ending his rampage. No one ever caught him, and the Seattle papers christened him "The Feeder." In that one article someone wrote once that might've mentioned Wolf Lake, or at least the word "lake."

Nancy scarfs chocolate sheet cake, listening to a self-help record that tells her to visualize a time when she felt safe and warm. Blah love thyself blah snore don't fret about tomorrow yada yak blah relax. Inspired, Nancy bolts for the bathroom and purges. Staring at herself in the mirror, she sighs, straightens her clothes, and trembles, "Well, that happened!" She whirls around to leave, then runs back and screams at her reflection, "You fat piece of poo!" "Poo"? Is this the Saturday morning cartoon hour? Is this show like that Family Circus cartoon, where the writers' kids fill in when the writers are too hung over to type? Nancy lifts up her shirt, examines her flat belly, then scoffs at her perceived fatness and flees.