One of the most captivating aspects of Pluribus is its quietude. The show masterfully draws strength from simply presenting a complex character on screen, allowing viewers to observe them in silence. It thrives on the understated rhythm of labor, spotlighting the intricate, often overlooked endeavors we undertake to navigate life. A time-lapse of Carol Sturka sleeping, with shifting daylight streaming through her window, encapsulates this motif. In essence, Pluribus meticulously portrays the essence of existing within its crafted universe—a human navigating a once-familiar world now turned alien and adversarial.

The episode unfolds with a straightforward, nearly minimalist storyline. Following Zosia’s cardiac arrest, the group deems Carol a walking hazard and collectively withdraws from her and Albuquerque. Communication is reduced to recorded messages, and services like garbage and mail are handled by drones. A voice recording simply states, “We just need a little space.”

Carol, however, finds solace—and unexpected productivity—in solitude. When coyote interference and underpowered drones disrupt her trash collection, she resorts to using public trash and recycling bins. This leads her to discover that all town recycling bins are laden with identical milk cartons linked to a single dairy, creating a mysterious amber liquid from a peculiar white powder.

This discovery might hold the secret to undoing the joining process, a possibility Carol believes in despite not knowing how to achieve it. She attempts to share her findings with the other 12 survivors, relying on the unseen Others to ensure the information reaches its destination.

As Carol inadvertently mirrors the plot of The Chair Company—where a recluse turns detective to unearth the truth behind a dubious product—she faces more immediate challenges. Once the trash dilemma resolves, the coyotes return, emboldened and hungrier. They begin digging at the grave of Carol’s wife, Helen. To fend them off, Carol jumps into her police car, blaring lights and sirens, and charges through the back fence to scatter the intruders.

Carol then spends much of the next day gathering paving stones and drag-assing them across town to cover the spot where Helen was laid to rest. She even paints a pretty gravestone, a humble side of her artistic talents that’s been hinted at if you pay close attention to her home but which we haven’t seen in action until now. To paraphrase Elaine Benes, perhaps there’s more to Carol Sturka than meets the eye.

In a cliffhanger ending, Carol discovers what’s under the rows and rows of plastic tarps in the cold storage facility at the plant that bags the mysterious white substance and covers her mouth in horror. Cut to black! Very dramatic, but I do worry how it will deliver. The obvious solution to the riddle is that the Others are consuming the remains of the billion or so people who’ve died since their takeover. Soylent Green is people, in other words. 

However, such a twist is so obvious that I would expect a swerve — maybe she’s just shocked because it’s piles of valuable Pokémon cards. Yet the problem with a swerve is that the obvious answer, they’re cannibals, is also the grossest and therefore coolest answer. What to do, what to do!

In all honesty, after an episode this strong I don’t really need them to do much. I’d still like some clarity on whether the collective keeps allowing Carol to short-circuit their brains worldwide without warning her it’s about to happen or asking her to stop what she’s doing. Is it really fair of them freeze her out when it’s not her fault they’re wired that way but neglected to tell her? Are they stupid, or is the show just expecting us not to care? But working from a script by Ariel Levine, director Gordon Smith constructs a series of memorable visuals that overcome many of my misgivings about the plot.

A panoramic view of the Others abandoning Albuquerque, the yellow-on-blue-on-blue composition of a shot of Carol dumpster-diving, the blue-and-red police lights swirling around her as she sits dazed in the driver’s seat, her black silhouette standing against the orange sunset with a halo of gnats like something out of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre — this episode, my favorite so far, is powered by moments where the images do the talking. The rest is silence.

Sean T. Collins (@seantcollins.com on Bluesky and theseantcollins on Patreon) has written about television for The New York Times, Vulture, Rolling Stone, and elsewhere. He is the author of Pain Don’t Hurt: Meditations on Road House. He lives with his family on Long Island.