The ironic thing was, Sam hadn't been hanging around the lake because of the text. She'd actually been minding her own business, trying out some of Frank's spearfishing techniques. And while she wasn't exactly 'a natural' at it, she thought she was doing all right, for a beginner. Sort of like archery in high school gym class. Or how she'd picked up on trick shots pretty fast after moving to LA and making friends with some of the local street gangsters.

Of course, this felt oddly more productive.

She'd been ignoring her wrist device. But when everyone started to cluster down the shore from her, she had to admit, she wanted to know what was up. So she grabbed her ghetto-ass spear and a couple of fairly pathetic fish she'd managed to catch and tie off around the tail, heading over.

That she looked like something out of the opening credits of The Andy Griffith Show--fish and a damn pole dangling over her shoulder--didn't really cross her mind. At least she had her wig to compensate for the effect, somewhat. And when she caught sight of Danny, she managed a tentative smile, even. She'd tucked away the events of the party into a deep and compartmentalized part of her mind. It was just a blip. She was pulling her fucking self together.

Although when she saw the pod, she let out a very soft, "Fuck. Another one?"