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Lorna, Damon and Bonnie are still outside the Bell's store when Bonnie speaks.
"It was behind the pickup."
"No. It was in the front." Damon argues.
"Are you sure?" Bonnie asks.
"Yes. Absolutely I'm sure. It was right there." Damon says and they notice a tarp flying in the wind.
"It was a tarp. We saw a tarp." Damon says.
Suddenly the horse carousel turns on and music starts playing.
"And that... that is on a timer. That turned on by itself." Damon adds.
"But your car." Lorna asks him.
"I left it here in '94." Damon points out.
"And the crossword?" Bonnie asks.
"You filled it out, Bonnie. Which means we're alone in my own hell with no Grams escape hatch. We're never getting out." Damon says dramatically.
"Do you believe me, Lori?" Bonnie turns to the blonde.
"Yes, I do, Bon." Lorna nods.
"I do not." Damon raises his hand.
That makes Bonnie frustrated making her look at Damon with a dead glare. "Give me your ring."
"What?" Damon asks.
"Give me your ring." Bonnie takes his hand and tries to snatch it while Damon resists. "All I've heard you say is that you have no hope and that this is your hell, so if it's so bad, why don't you just end it?"
Damon pushes her back.
"Hope is the only thing keeping me going, Damon, so if you're really done, if you have none, then be done because this isn't helping." She leaves.
"Why can't you keep your cocky mouth shut at least for a few minutes?" Lorna shakes her head and crosses her hands giving Damon a look.
Later on, Damon and Lorna walk inside the Bell's store since they couldn't find Bonnie. They come to the wine section of the store and Damon picks up a bottle.
"Want a glass of bourbon to celebrate another day of this hell?" Damon asks the blonde.
Lorna opens her mouth to speak, but suddenly they hear a sound nearby. Damon keeps the bottle back and they go ahead and see a man lounged on a chair munching pork rinds.
"Rough day, huh, Damon? Sorry. Manners." A stranger guy with dark brown hair and blue-grey eyes who have a look like he's in his early twenties questions with a grin.
