Written by: Rene Echevarria
Directed by: Vincent Misiano
Episode Number: 105
Original Broadcast Date: October 22, 1999
Guest Stars: Chad Lowe (Craig Spence), Al Roffe (Sanchez)

Lisa is sitting alone at a fancy restaurant, waiting for someone to arrive. Typically, her dinner companion - Craig Spence - is late getting there. He excuses himself, saying he's been preparing for a big stockholder's meeting. "Well, I completely understand," Lisa replies acerbically. "You're a very busy man."

"Don't be ridiculous. This is very important to me. You're part of the Grand Empire family." He pauses to order a vodka rocks. "So, what can I do for you?"

"Shortly after my husband..." Lisa pauses. "I came to see you with an attorney - an attorney I'm no longer working with, by the way - and you proposed, among other things, a loan."

She goes on to explain that it was her lawyer who stormed out then; she simply followed him. "So," Spence says, getting back to business. "You are... interested in a loan?"

"I am interested in the million dollars you owe me from my husband's life insurance policy," Lisa replies bitterly. "But since you have indicated very clearly that that will not be forthcoming any time soon, I was wondering if the loan offer was still valid."

This gets Spence's attention. "Money troubles?"

"Money... catastrophes. The bank wants to take my house."

Spence feigns sympathy. "I wish there was something I could do."

"But your hands are tied," Lisa finishes, recalling their last conversation.

"You noticed," Spence says, chuckling.

Lisa has had it. "Why do you hate us so much?"

"Hate you? I barely know you."

"Then why?"

Spence reminds her that her husband's testimony cost Grand Empire $400 million in a settlement that wouldn't have been paid if Michael had said what he was told to say. "So no, I will not be glibly paying out his death benefit," he adds. "You're going to have to take me to court. And I'm also afraid that I'm going to do everything I can to delay and postpone, and make sure that by the time I am ordered to pay out I have cost you so much time and so much energy and you are in so much debt that even you will curse your husband's memory."

He grows cheerful again, even as Lisa fixes him with a glare. "Well, and hopefully you'll understand that none of this is personal. It's just that we feel very strongly that our employees should understand their place in the greater corporate culture. Would you like another drink?" She picks up her half-empty wine glass, contemplating it for a moment. "No. This one will do fine."

With that, she dashes the contents of the glass into Spence's face, drenching him, before storming out for real this time.

In the townhouse, two doors and doorframes have been set up for Michael's training. One kick from Michael, and the wooden door flies completely off its hinges. Morris starts applauding. "Very nice."

Michael grins, leaning on the doorframe. "You like that?" For answer, Dr. Morris gestures to the other door, this one made of metal. Michael approaches it uncertainly, knocking on the metal to see how solid it is. "You can do it," Morris assures him.

"Oh, yeah," Michael says, "with a can opener I could do it."

"With your body, you can do it." Michael sighs as he makes his way around the door. "With your body, I'd like to do it," he mutters.

"Excuse me, Mr. Wiseman?"

Wisely, Michael doesn't respond, backing away several paces to get a running start. Clearing his throat, he glances nervously at Morris before charging at the door to slam into it with all his strength. A loud bang of flesh striking metal can be heard, but the door doesn't budge. Morris winces in sympathy. After a moment, Michael slowly steps away from the door, a dazed and pained look on his face. "You know this is metal, right?" he asks in a strained voice, pointing at the door.

"Aluminum, actually," Morris answers. "Of course I know."

Michael points to himself. "And you know that this is flesh... or a reasonable facsimile, right?"

"I am intimately familiar with every fiber of your being, Mr. Wiseman."

"Good. Then you'll take this in the spirit in which it's offered." Michael points to the aluminum. "This stuff..." here he points to himself, "hurts this stuff. You'll excuse me now," he adds, starting towards his bedroom. "I'm going to take a hot shower and dip my body in a vat of Ben-Gay."

Morris sighs, laying a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Mr. Wiseman..."

Michael flinches in pain at the contact. "Don't touch. Let's give the nerves a week or two to calm down."

Later, he's sitting beside the pool, halfheartedly picking at his meal and letting a brussels sprout roll off his fork in distaste. Nearby, the janitor is washing the glass between his bedroom and the pool. "Hey, Sanchez," Michael greets him, picking through the assortment of greens. "Want some brussels sprouts? How about rutabaga? We got some mouth-watering rutabaga. Oh, hey, don't look now but we got some kind of yummy root thing here. Yep. Nothin' says lovin' like plant life from the oven."

The janitor doesn't reply, and Michael keeps talking. "You're a regular Charlie Rose, you know that? Yeah, but I don't blame you." He glances up at the surveillance camera. "It's hard to engage in conversation when you know you're being watched. Hi, guys."

Restless, he gets up and crosses over to Sanchez, who's still washing. "So what's going on out there in the real world, old buddy? How are my Knicks doing?"

The janitor stops and blinks at him. "┬┐Como?"

"'┬┐Como? Is that all you have to say to me? I mean, every night it's the same thing and I'm getting pretty damn sick of it. 'Como' this, 'Como' that. There's more to the world than Perry Cuomo."

Sanchez is still baffled. "Desculpeme, pero no le entiendo."

"Fine, have it your way." Michael fingers the newspapers in the janitor's bucket. "Hey, Sanchez... if you don't speak English, how come you have the Times? Huh? What's the deal? You like the lingerie ads?" Sanchez indicates the glass, and Michael nods. "Ah. No streaks."

The janitor goes back to his scrubbing, ignoring Michael. Glancing furtively about him, Michael reaches over and surreptitiously pulls out one of the folded newspapers.

Later that evening. Michael's room seems empty and disturbed... except for the cord running over the bed and under the closet door. Inside, Michael is crouched with the paper, reading it in the light of the lamp he's taken from his room. "'League-leading Knicks.' Yes!" He catches himself, hoping he wasn't loud enough to be heard, before continuing. "'Professor Leonard Ziglan... husband of Sheila, father of Gene...' donated his brain to science. Hmm. See what you started?"

He flips over to the classifieds, reading through the homes for sale. "'Tudor stunner.' Hmmph. That better be for two and a half mil. 'Convenient commuter cottage.' Train probably runs through the back yard. 'Family charmer.' That sounds nice." He notices the address then. "I know that house." It suddenly occurs to him, and in his shock he forgets to keep his voice down. "That's my house!"

The lights, including the one he's borrowed, all shut off at that. "Thank you."

Lisa comes out in the back yard to find Heather sitting on one of the swings, staring dejectedly at the sky. "Honey, could you, could you come and brood inside? It's getting kind of late." Heather doesn't respond, and Lisa sits down in the swing next to her. "Sweetie, I don't know what to say. There really is no other way. We simply can't afford to live here anymore."

"It's okay, Mom. Don't worry. I don't care if we move," Heather replies bitterly. "I mean, I've always wanted to live in one of those crummy little apartment complexes where divorced women take their families when their husbands dump them. I like kids from broken homes. They have the best drugs and the coolest tattoos. Maybe I'll get a nose ring. That way, I'd be able to fit in when we're hanging out in the parking lot for all hours smoking cigarettes and taking turns having sex behind the garbage dumpsters."

Lisa doesn't have a response to that.

Lying in bed, Michael is still trying to puzzle things out. "Maybe she just wants to be closer to her parents." He pulls the covers off of his face. "She hates her parents."

He rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "It's me. Being there without me makes her sad. That's it." Somewhat satisfied, he rolls onto his side and closes his eyes, trying to settle into sleep.

But then something else occurs to him. "What if she's met someone else?" Michael stares at the ceiling, growing more and more suspicious. "Sure. It's some guy. He's got a place. She doesn't need hers anymore. They're moving in together, and she's selling our house." With that, he jumps out of bed. A few moments later, a loud bang can be heard. Then another. Then a crash. The alarms throughout the townhouse all go off at once.

Roger is sneaking into his study to smoke, but he is interrupted as Michael sneaks in through an open window, quieting his friend before Roger can make a fuss. "What do you want?" Roger hisses in frustration.

Michael explains that he needs to know why Lisa's selling her house. "You got to help me, old buddy."

"I am not your old buddy," Roger snaps vehemently. "Particularly after that wild-goose chase you led me on."

"I'm sorry about that," Michael sighs.

"Reincarnated," Roger scoffs. "You're with the I.R.S. That's why you knew everything about me... about Michael. Look, you're not fooling me. You can't just come climbing in through people's windows in the middle of the night. I have rights." He hesitates, some of his resolve breaking. "And just so we're clear, that second Mercedes is a business expense. I make a lot of work-related calls from..."

"Just tell me. Is it another guy?"

Roger is confused. "Is... Is who another guy?"

"The reason she's selling the house - has she met someone?"

"Are you sure that this is government business?" Roger sighs, seeing Michael's determined stare."No. No, it's not another man. She's, uh... broke."

"What?" Michael exclaims. "That can't be."

"It can be, and is," Roger tells him. "Boy, for an I.R.S. agent, you sure don't know much."

"Wait a second," Michael says. "I know for a fact that her husband left her a million dollar..."

"Life insurance policy," they both finish in unison.

Roger knows where this is going. "Unfortunately, the fella who runs the company - now the fella for whom Michael would have been working - he didn't like Michael very much. So now he is determined to make Lisa crawl before she gets a dime of that money."

"Craig Spence?" Michael asks.

"Oh, so you've heard of him," Roger says. "Now he's somebody you people should be taking a look at." Stunned, Michael leans against the desk, half-sitting on it. "Craig Spence."

"So, is that what you need to know?" Roger asks. Michael is staring into space, still processing the news. "Fella? You all right?"

Michael snaps back into reality, standing up. "I don't know. I-I should... I should get going. They're going to be right behind me."

"Who is? You're the I.R.S., what do you have to be afraid of?" Roger retorts. Something occurs to him as Michael turns to go. "Which, uh... which reminds me - this little fact-finding mission. Wouldn't you say that this sort of makes me a friend of Internal Revenue? I'm not asking for any kind of special consideration, but if you happen to find some... irregularities come tax time, I would hope that I would be accorded the, uh... well, how should I put this? The benefit of the doubt?"

Michael doesn't dignify that with a response. "If anyone asks, you haven't seen me."

"Hey, I get it. One nation indivisible... these lips... sealed." He sighs as Michael ducks back outside. Alone again, he pulls out another cigarette, but before he can light up the arrival of what sounds like a helicopter interrupts as the window blows open to show Morris standing outside, demanding to know how long Michael was there, where he went, and what he wanted. "He just left, he didn't say, and he wanted to know why Lisa Wiseman's selling her house," Roger blurts.

Morris nods and leaves, and the helicopter takes off. Roger tries to light up again, but his wife calls from the other room: "Roger! Are you smoking again?" Defeated, Roger shuts the lighter off.

Morning. Michael sits up to see Morris and a group of armed agents standing at the foot of his bed. "You know, a simple wake-up call would do."

Morris is understandably angry that Michael broke out, but the fact that Michael has returned is perplexing. "Yeah, I missed my room," Michael quips. "You think you could ask these guys to hold their N.R.A. meeting somewhere else?"

Alone in the gym with Michael, Morris paces back and forth, waiting for an explanation. Michael finally speaks. "I need your help." The doc is astounded that Michael would have the audacity to ask for help after the stunt he's pulled. Michael argues that his family is being punished unfairly, to no avail - Morris doesn't back down. But neither does Michael. "I'll just keep breaking out."

"Rest assured, Mr. Wiseman, the door will be twice as thick."

"Then I'll train harder, and I'll grow stronger," Michael tells him. "And you'll help me, because your ego won't allow you to do anything else. And then one day when you least expect it..."

The two men are facing each other down, almost nose to nose. "I'll track you to the ends of the earth, Mr. Wiseman."

"Perfect. Perfect. And one minute before you catch up to me, I'll kill myself," Michael replies, "just so I can watch you suffer like you're making me suffer."

Morris turns away then, and so does Michael. After a pause, Morris finally asks what Michael means by help. The answer: a couple of days of freedom. Naturally, Morris refuses. "Shadow me, then," Michael says. "Be with me, if it makes sense. And then, once I've gotten her her money I'm back here - the world's most cooperative guinea pig."

Relenting, Morris sets the deadline to three days. "You mind if I ask - why did you come back?"

"It's like I told you, I needed your help. I can't do what I have to do looking over my shoulder wondering when you and your militia are going to show up."

"Oh, yeah," Morris says, almost disappointed. "Of course."

Michael can't resist a parting shot. "And you know, I'm nuts about the food."

Lisa goes up to Heather's room, telling her daughter to hurry; the realtor wants them out of the house. "I'm done!" Heather calls as Lisa walks in to behold her daughter's surprisingly pristine bedroom. Naturally, she's suspicious, asking where Heather put all the junk. "That's it," Heather exclaims. "I'm calling the authorities. I'm calling Sally Jessy Raphael."

For answer, Lisa pushes the bedroom door closed. The immense pile of books, magazines, clothes, et cetera that was propped up behind the door slides down as Lisa looks skeptically at Heather.

Heather plays innocent. "Wow."

As they get in the car to leave, they see the realtor and the prospective buyers approaching the house. "They look nice," Lisa observes.

"Uh-huh," Heather says sadly as they drive away.

At Grand Empire, Roger finds himself riding in the elevator with Craig Spence. "Uh, so how did that little get-together with Lisa Wiseman go?" Roger asks. "I appreciate your doing that for me, by the way."

"Oh, it was very nice. She had a club soda - I had a drink. She asked for money - I said no."

With that, Spence strides out of the elevator, and Roger glares at his retreating back. "Jackass."

His irritation is forgotten, however, when he enters his office only to find Michael sitting at his desk. Michael explains that he needs Roger to get him a job at Grand Empire. "We're launching a special investigation."

"And you want me to get you in here?" Roger asks in disbelief. "No, no, no, no. Absolutely not. What, are you insane? I'll be out on the street faster than you can say 'Turn in your company car.'"

"Roger, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. And, after all, you are my friend."

"Your friend? Every time you show up you cause me nothing but trouble. Do you realize my wife has now started locking me in the bedroom at night because of you?"

"Hey, how is Ruth?" Michael asks.

Roger is taken aback. "Ruth... is none of your business Mr. I.R.S.-I-know-everything-about-you-guy. And, uh, there are no employment opportunities available at Grand Empire Insurance at the present time."

Michael, of course, knows that's a lie, brandishing a memo from Personnel to prove it. He says he needs a job on the V.P. level. "Something where I can be close to Craig Spence. Close but not too close."

"Craig Spence? You're, uh... investigating Craig Spence?" Roger hesitates, turning the possibilities over in his mind. "This is a... federal matter, right?" he asks, leaning forward.

Michael grins. "Very federal."

Despite himself, Roger can't help but return a small smile. "Well... then I guess I have no choice."

Spence doesn't look up as the next applicant comes into his office. "So... why do you want to be my assistant?"

"I don't want to be your assistant," is the response. "I want to be you, but that job appears to be taken."

This makes Spence look up, impressed; it seems that's almost the same thing he said to his old boss for his interview, and it obviously worked for him. "Have we met?" he asks curiously.

Michael can't completely suppress a smile. "Not in this life. Not that I know of. So when can I start?"

"You want to tell me your name?"

"Newman," Michael answers. "Michael Newman."

After having to listen to Spence's egomaniacal description of what's expected of him, Michael runs an errand and has the opportunity to buy himself a hot dog on the street. But just before he can bite into it, Dr. Morris appears, taking the hot dog. "What are you doing here?" Michael asks him.

"Protecting my investment." Morris hands him an apple and two bananas.

Michael stares wistfully at the hot dog. "I'm begging you."

"You're flirting with unemployment, my friend. Are we making any progress?"

"I've discovered he likes to have his shirts starched lightly, his coffee sweetened heavily, and his ego massaged thoroughly."

Morris doesn't quite know how to respond. "Oh."

Later that evening, a clearly intoxicated Spence calls Michael into his office to refill his glass of vodka, observing that the suit Michael's wearing is "the perfect suit for this job." He gets on to rambling about how he didn't know anything when he first started here, and eventually gets around to the guy who taught him everything - namely, the "old" Michael. "Some people say he threw himself in front of a train."

Michael is shocked to hear this one. "What?"

Drunk, Spence keeps going on about how wonderfully ironic it was - every time they don't have to pay off, it's money in his pocket. "So, in kind of a weird way, Wiseman's suicide..."

"Wait, wait, wait. You don't know it was a suicide."

"Hmm... no, that's true." Spence chuckles. "But I like that it was a suicide." He goes on, blithely unaware of the shock and rage in Michael's eyes. "I mean, you know, what's the guy going to do? It's not like he's going to come back and dispute it."

In the midst of this, he eventually shuts up, telling Michael to call him a car, and falls asleep in his chair. Michael stands there for several moments, staring at him, clenching and unclenching his fists in rage before turning to go.

He's uncharacteristically silent when the limo comes to pick him up. "What, no 'Hi, honey, I'm home?" Morris inquires.

Michael reveals what he's learned: that the insurance company is claiming suicide. "I did have one idea," he says. "I seriously considered killing him." Morris starts in surprise at that as Michael continues. "He was just sitting there, asleep. I thought, 'Do it. Kill him. What are they going to do to you? You're already dead.'" He glances out the window. "Where are we going? This isn't the way home."

It turns out that it is the way home - Michael's old house. Lisa has received an offer on the house. "It occurred to me," Morris tells him, "as long as we were out, you might want one more look." As Michael stares out the window, he adds, "What are you waiting for?"

"What do you mean? Just... just knock on the door? It's... it's after 10:00."

"Yeah, you're right. Let's head back, driver."

"Whoa, whoa, wait a second. Wait a second," Michael exclaims, staring at the doctor uncertainly.

Morris nods. "Go on."

Lisa is understandably surprised to see just who is on her doorstep. "Hi, again," Michael says. "I-I-it's okay. Don't be frightened. No eggs, I'm not going to kiss you." Lisa laughs at that. "I just... well, I've been out house-hunting and, uh... look, I know it's late but I'm leaving town tomorrow, and would it be all right, if..."

"Well, I already have an offer."

"Maybe I'll beat it."

"And it's 10:15, and no offense, but..."

"But you know me. I work for the government. Hey, my boss is right there in the car." He points out to the limo by the curb, as the window rolls down to show Morris sitting there. "You remember him. Right?" Lisa is still skeptical, and Michael sighs. "Please?"

Sighing, Lisa relents, letting Michael inside. In the living room, Michael looks around with nostalgia, picking up a photo from the mantle. "Those don't come with the house," Lisa reminds him.

"Of course not," Michael says, putting the photo back. He notices the open books on the table. "Someone studying real estate?"

"Oh, that's me. I-I'm trying to get my license."

"That's perfect. You'd be great at--" Michael catches himself. "So if I buy this house does that, like, make me your first customer?"

"No, 'cause it'll take me at least three months to get my license."

"Well, if I buy this house and I like it," Michael says, "maybe I'll come back in three months and buy another house." Lisa smiles.

Up in the bathroom, Lisa's a bit embarrassed by the faulty pipes, which continue to run for no reason. "I find that sound kind of comforting," she jokes. "But it's really not a big deal. My husband used to just..."

The water stops running, but that's because Michael has played around with the sink the way he always did to make it stop. "There you go. Just have to let the pressure out once in a while." Lisa just stares at him.

Passing through the bedroom, Michael picks up a photo on the bedside table - a photo of his old self. "It's my husband," Lisa explains. "He was in an accident eight months ago."

"An accident?" Michael asks.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry." He's secretly relieved to hear she doesn't think it's a suicide. "What's down here?"

"It's my daughter's bedroom, but she's asleep."

"Just a peek?" Michael asks. "I'll be quiet." Sighing, Lisa opens the door to give Michael a glimpse of Heather's bedroom and a sleeping Heather. "She looks really happy," Michael observes as Lisa closes the door.

They go back down to the living room. "Hey," Michael says suddenly, "how's the piano?"

He goes over to the piano and starts playing "Heart and Soul." Lisa, bemused, follows. "That is the only song I know," she says, moving beside him and playing the harmony.

After they continue the duet for several moments, he stops. "Don't sell."

"I-I have to sell, Mr..."

Michael hesitates for a second before answering, "Newman."

"Mr. Newman. I need to sell," Lisa insists. "Or I need a miracle. But I definitely have to do something."

Michael understands that, but he asks for just one day to straighten things out. "Or, who knows? You can have your miracle." Seeing no harm in waiting, Lisa agrees to wait one day.

The next morning, a posh NYC hotel. Spence is checking in, with Michael in tow. It's 11 am, the meeting's not for another hour, so Spence decides he's got time to order some food and get a shower before he gets "lavished with praise" by the board.

"Lavished with praise?" Michael asks. "How can you be so sure?"

"Hand me my briefcase," Spence tells him. Michael does, and Spence fishes out an ornate check. "You know what this is?"

"Is that from one of those magazine subscription offers?" Michael jokes. "Can't cash those, you know."

"No. This is a copy of my bonus check from Grand Empire. I keep it with me for inspiration. You see that there? Those are six zeros, my friend. That's pretty lavish, don't you think?" Michael doesn't answer, and Spence fishes through his briefcase, fishing out a letter from a Swiss bank with his account number and tells Michael to copy it down in the laptop. "I live in fear of losing this."

Michael takes it, reading the letter: "'Dear 5-7-7-6-9-8-7-4-5-9-2-3-8-5-3-9-0-1-1-5-Q-Q-9-9:' That's awfully warm and fuzzy. Bet they send beautiful calendars at Christmas."

"Nope, there are no names and no signatures just your account number. Without that, I can kiss my money good-bye."

Spence changes the subject, going back to the food order and bemoaning the prices as Michael contemplates the letter on the desk. The window is open, and a slight breeze is coming in. While Spence's back is turned, Michael blows at the letter, sending it just out the window.

As Spence yells at him to get on the phone and place the order, Michael grins. "I think that letter of yours just blew out the window."

"What?!?!?" Spence searches the desk frantically, to no avail. "Okay, Nimrod, where is it?"

"I'm telling you, it blew out the window." Michael and Spence look outside. "There it is," Michael says, pointing to the letter, which is lying on the ledge several paces away.

Spence asks him if he got the number in the laptop - Michael, of course, didn't bother. Panicking, Spence insists that one of them has to go and get it. "Really? Well, how are you with heights?" Michael asks. "We got to be at least 20 floors up."

"I... I'm not good," Spence stammers. "How are you?"

"Well, it's funny you should ask, because in recent weeks, I've actually confronted this kind of thing a number of times."

Spence stares at him. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Michael just smiles. "Okay. You get out there, and you get that letter now!"

Enraged, he grabs Michael by the collar. Michael grabs Spence's wrist, exerting just enough force on it to make the other man grimace in pain. A bit fearful now, Spence promises a reward if Michael will go and get it. He ups it to $100,000 before Michael agrees, casually climbing out the window. Michael walks across the ledge, kneels down to pick up the letter, and stuffs it in his jacket. Spence yells at him to come back, but Michael remains crouched on the ledge, casually scribbling something on a pad. "Why don't you come out here?" he says.

Spence will do no such thing. "You're... you're going to come back in here now. And if you don't do it on the count of three, I'm... I'm going to shut and close and lock these windows, all right?"

Michael puts the pad away and pulls out the letter, dangling it over the edge. "And if you don't come out here, I'm letting go of this letter."

Terrified at the thought of losing his account number, Spence eases out onto the ledge, his back flat against the wall. "Okay, look. I understand. You don't think I'm actually going to pay you. Okay, but I will. I will. You'll see. Let's just go back inside and you can keep the letter, all right? Look, I'll take you right now down to... to my local bank, and I'll hand you the cash. Okay?" Michael doesn't answer, finishing whatever he's writing, tearing it off the pad and letting it fall to the street below. "What was that?" Spence asks.

"Your suicide note," Michael replies.

"Suicide note?" Spence repeats. With lightning-fast reflexes, Michael grabs Spence's arm and pulls him off the ledge, holding the other man off the side of the building. Spence screams.

"It's important that somebody find that suicide note to establish that you took your own life," Michael tells him. "I know you really didn't kill yourself but I like that it's a suicide."

He looks down at the street below. "Oh, hey, look. All the bigwigs from Grand Empire are arriving to lavish you with praise. Oops. They're not going in. Something's got their attention. They're looking up. You know, it's a shame that you can't wave."

"Who are you?!" Spence cries. "Why are you doing this to me?!"

"Me?" Michael replies. "I'm just a really strong guy who either saved your life or couldn't hold on." Spence's only response is incoherent panic. "What do you say we talk about Michael Wiseman's insurance policy? Huh?"

The Wiseman residence. Lisa opens the front door. "Yes?" Dr. Morris is standing there. "Oh."

"Oh, you were expecting someone else?" Morris asks. "A Mr. Newman, perhaps?"

"Yeah," Lisa replies, letting him inside.

Michael is waiting in the limo as Morris gets in. "So how'd she take it?"

"Oh, she was thrilled about the insurance money," Morris says. "She was thrilled about being able to keep her house. She was just a touch disappointed that it was Mr. Newman's boss, and not Mr. Newman himself coming to bring her the news."

Michael sighs. "I can relate to that completely."

"Mr. Wiseman, we made a deal," Morris reminds him. "You asked for my help, and I gave it to you. And in return, you promised me your complete devotion to our work. I'm going to hold you to that promise. Let's go, please, driver."

Michael makes no reply as the limo pulls away. As "Heart and Souls" plays in the background, we see the front yard from his perspective out the window, in time to see Lisa come out into the front yard. She uproots the "For Sale" sign, then heads back just as the house disappears from our line of vision.

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