A playing card slaps the spoke of a bicycle wheel as a pair of dirty sneakers pedal toward the drive-through window of a burger joint. Haywire – looking wildly insane in that football helmet - steers the bicycle to the drive-through window, slides it open and dives head first inside. A soda pop dispenser catches his eye, but even more delectable – the soft serve ice cream dispenser. Haywire pushes the lever, and a long stream of milky-white confection fills his mouth and his hands as The Tarantella slowly builds to a crescendo. His belly momentarily full, Haywire cools off by putting his head under the soda pop dispenser, washes away the miles he pedaled on that bike. Then it’s on to the toppings - chocolate syrup, strawberry topping –Haywire’s in sugar heaven. The door to the burger joint opens, but Haywire doesn’t care – he still lapping up all of that fatty goodness when the Day Clerk enters with his horny girlfriend. They make out, all hot and heavy, as Haywire looks on, slurping his giant soda like a guy at a steamy movie. The girlfriend nuzzles the clerks neck, catches a glimpse of Haywire and screams. Haywire’s crazy but he’s not stupid; he bolts.

Lincoln drives Geary’s cop-mobile to the housing development wherein somewhere resides their five-million-dollar prize. Linc parks the car, “Ranch is gone, Michael.”  Michael doesn’t give up so easily, “The five million might not be,” he says, strained. T-Bag’s still T-Bag, “And you gonna find it, how?’ he asks, “What, you got a divining rod tattooed on your ass?” Michael’s world is falling apart, “I don’t want to hear anything out of your mouth other than what your photographic memory spits out regarding that map.” T-Bag warns him to watch his tone. Michael gets up-close and personal, says what he’ll watch is T-Bag being tossed out of the car where he can fend for himself, because if T-Bag doesn’t remember where the silo was, he’s worthless to them. Tweener calls out from the trunk for them to let him out; Lincoln tells Tweener to shut up. Michael ignores Tweener’s pleas too, turns to T-Bag forcefully, “The map.” T-Bag relents, “Alright, alright – the ranch was in the center of a box; Sheep Road on one side, Kokosing roach perpendicular. The driveway leading to the ranch went straight up the center of Kokosing Road. In the center of the property was the ranch house.” T-Bag digs into his memory, “And the ranch house was surrounded by trees.” Michael and Lincoln get out of the car; no sign of older trees, but Michael’s got it covered,” Every tree here is a year old, at least,” he says. His eyes scan the terrain – gets a bead on what he’s looking for, a patch of tall trees square ahead, “Except these.” Lincoln surveys the area, “Where was the silo?” he asks. T-Bag squints into his memory, drums his good hand into his head, coaxes it to remember, “Inside the trees,” he says, “I want to say on the left – but that may have been a barn. I’m sorry gents, I remembered as best I could but I didn’t know this place would be smothered with tract homes. So you know, I ah – ah’m sorry if I’m not Rainman over heyah.”

Mahone’s at the Federal Building in Salt Lake City where he’s greeted by a man named Lyle Sands who’s probably been living his whole life for this day. Lyle tells Mahone that they’ve been briefed on all the men at large and Mahone has all the Salt Lake City field officers at his disposal. Mahone wants to know if the files have been pulled on the D.B. Cooper case, and Lyle says they’re pulling them know, wants to clarify, “And this is the D.B. Cooper case from thirty years ago?” Mahone confirms, wants the files right away. Lyle apologies for the question, asks anyway, “Aren’t you here for the Fox River Eight?” Mahone confirms, but tells Lyle that the Fox River gang is there to get Cooper’s money, “So how about those files, Lyle?”