I'm at home, in the kitchen with Scott and Natasha. I've overheard Natasha telling Scott that his methods of discipline with his cat are inappropriate and cruel and outdated. I wasn't supposed to hear what she said, but I tell her that what she has said is not the absolute truth, but her own truth, and mature individuals should be able to tell the difference.

Both of them go down the hallway toward the bedroom. By the closet is a sliding door like in the master bathroom, and it is at least partially closed while they confer behind it. Scott comes out grinning, like he's not supposed to let on, but apparently Natasha has told him that the smell proves that I'm the one farting around the house. I point out Timmy, the usual culprit, sitting innocently on the floor.