The first time she awoke, she opened her eyes to see a woman, probably a hiker judging from her clothes, on her knees staring at her with concern. Another hiker, a man, stood nearby shouting into a cell phone. The woman's eyes went wide and she turned and called to her partner.

"John! John, she's awake! Come here!"

And then she lost consciousness again.

When she woke again, she was being carried up the stairs at the observation deck on a stretcher. Sparkles of sunlight on Toluca Lake lanced through the trees and she winced. Her head hurt. She barely remembered the sensation of riding in some sort of vehicle, and that made sense. It was probably a Land Rover or something similar that could take her from the location where her house had once stood all the way to here. She figured there must be a bridge across the Toluca River, and probably one across the Illiniwak as well, for just that sort of thing. What else could the National Park Service do – airlift out people who hurt themselves?

She was strapped in on the stretcher and didn't like it. She struggled weakly, then gave up. A paramedic looked down at her and said something soothing that she couldn't make out, and she caught a glimpse of her truck parked right where she left it before she went under again.

The third time, she came to in a hospital bed at St. Jerome's Hospital in Ashfield, where she spent the afternoon attended to by nurses who came and went. Across from her bed, a television was bolted to a metal frame high up in the corner and she watched a series of shows, one after another,about famous sunken ocean liners. To see elegance decayed by years on the ocean floor – or in the case of the Empress of Ireland, the bottom of the St. Lawrence River – reminded her of Silent Hill.

She thought back to rotting interiors. The Ridgeview Medical Clinic Building. A basement apartment, an auditorium, a library, and a department store. A high school and a hotel.

She thought of abandoned cars parked alongside empty streets.

She wondered how many people were still trapped in Silent Hill, and how long they would suffer. How many had she set free? She didn't feel like counting, because the number would be too small and it would depress her.

I did a little good at least, though, she thought, and looked out her window to see traffic flowing by on Lynch Street.

The next morning, after breakfast and an assisted trip to her hospital room's bathroom, she was lying in bed and trying but failing to find anything worth watching on the television when her admitting physician, Dr. Prahdeep Ghosh – and why did that name sound familiar? She couldn't remember – stopped by to update her on her litany of injuries. He assured her that all in all, things would feel much worse for a while than they actually were. Her concussion was minor and he advised her to avoid strenuous movement and if at all possible, sudden movements. Her bruises would fade in time, even the bite marks, some of which had broken the skin, but only barely.

"We'd like to keep you here at least one more night, however, for observation."

Augusta agreed.

"We have you on painkillers at the moment, because some of your bruising was quite deep into the flesh, but you should be able to manage with over-the-counter pain pills such as Advil or Tylenol. Whatever your personal preference may be. Just don't exceed the recommended dosage," he said with a smile. "And you'll want to get plenty of rest for the next few days. I'd also advise trying to avoid anything that might upset your stomach. What with a concussion you might be a little touch-and-go regarding that, so now's not the time to be adventurous in the kitchen."

"I think," he said, "that you're actually very lucky, although later on an officer from the Brahms Police Department and a park ranger will be in to speak with you."

"Why?" She realized as she asked that it was a stupid question.

Dr. Ghosh's gaze turned serious. "Because, Ms. Jackson, we would like to find out what happened to you, and who did it. You were severely beaten and apparently left in the national park. Do you have any memory of the incident?"

You have no idea, she thought.

He asked other questions, so many that she began to wonder if there would be anything left for the police to ask her later. She answered as truthfully as she dared.

Did she know who hurt her? Yes and no. She had known Joseph, but couldn't comprehend a being such as Weeping Mary. In the end, she said no, she didn't.

Was it a boyfriend, a significant other? No. Joseph was not significant.

"I'm a woman, and I'm battered, but I'm not that kind of battered woman," she said.

Finally, Dr. Ghosh left her, and she went back to not finding anything worth watching, and thinking of Silent Hill.

In a way, she reflected, it feels like a weight is off my chest. It's over. I went through hell and came out on the other side.

But why? I couldn't save my child.

You can't save something that never existed. But why does she not exist? Because I aborted her.

Why did I abort her? Because Joseph lied to me.

I am guilty of wanting love. A person can lead you around by the nose and talk you into doing things you'd never consider when you have that problem.

I sinned, I repented, I'm forgiven, and I don't think I'll be making a lot of the same old mistakes again. I am strong and I can fight. Hell, an angel herself said that I'm noble and good and that must count for something.

I will always miss my child. Any normal person always grieves for their dead child, but I am alive and I can do good things in the world.

I am alive. I am a good person.

This is the part, she thought, on talk shows where the person finally says 'I love me,' and everybody cries. I don't think I'm quite up for that.

She thought about Kitty again. I let him talk me into that because I was weak, and I believe I have proved to myself that is no longer the case. I have the bruises to prove it. I'll live a good life for her. I'd like to believe she'll be proud of me.

Weakness isn't the gravest sin of all. That would be hatred, the cold fire that burned in Joseph and built for him a fine tomb of black marble.

I don't think I honestly hate anyone except for him, and now he's dead, so it's a moot point. I think things are going to be okay now. I can let it go.

Later, she dozed but snapped awake when a beautiful, petite blonde woman and a mountainously huge black man knocked softly on her open door and entered. Augusta saw nurses and orderlies passing by in the corridor behind them.

The woman smiled as she approached Augusta's bed, and held out her hand. Augusta accepted and shook it gently.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Jackson. I'm Detective Bennett-Sims from the Brahms PD. You can call me Cybil though, if you'd like. This is Ranger Charles Vardry with the National Park Service. Dr. Ghosh probably told you we'd be coming. We'd like to talk to you."

Throughout the interview, Cybil and Ranger Vardry asked many of the same questions Dr. Ghosh had posed, and they referred to the answers he had collected from her. It seemed as though they hoped to get a different answer if they asked the same question more than once. Augusta understood why, though. Through gentle coaxing, you could convince a battered woman that it would be best to let the police take care of an abusive boyfriend or spouse.

She sensed they might be preparing to ask the same question again, and stopped them. "I don't have a husband or boyfriend, or even an ex to do this to me. I don't know who did it. I parked my truck and walked into–" she almost said 'town' but caught it in time, "–the park, and the next thing I know I'm lying face-down in the mud."

Cybil, sitting in a chair beside the bed, looked at her. She was recording the interview with a small tape recorder set on the bedside table, as she wrote in a notebook.

Ranger Vardry shifted from foot to foot. He was built like a wrestler and his uniform strained to cover his muscles. He and Cybil shared a look before he said, "I believe I'll excuse myself if you don't mind, ma'am. Perhaps you two could chat in private."

Cybil said, "I think that would be a good idea. Close the door behind you, if you wouldn't mind. Thanks."

When he had gone, she looked back at Augusta.

What did this mean?

"Ms. Jackson, I'm going to leave my recorder running because I can do some creative dubbing a little later, and I still need to ask you some questions that are going to be required due to the circumstances. However, it's time to tell me the truth."

"I am telling the truth."

Cybil smiled. "Actually I believe you. You probably don't know who attacked you, although I'd say it's more likely you don't know what attacked you. Would that be more accurate?"

Augusta looked away.

"You didn't go to Paleville National Park, did you? You went to Silent Hill."

Augusta looked back at her, turning quickly enough to send a bolt of pain through her skull.

"I've been there too. In fact, I was there just shortly after the dam broke. The very day it happened, actually, because I got sent in to see why Brahms lost all communication with Silent Hill all of a sudden that Sunday afternoon. So, level with me and tell me what happened. At least... Tell me, if you can, how you came to be in possession of a gun registered to Lisa Groft. You've heard of her, I'm sure – she's the actress. She was reported missing in Los Angeles, Californiathree days ago by her boyfriend. You were wearing a holster when you were found, and that gun was in the holster."

Cybil leaned forward and placed a hand on Augusta's.

"Again, if you can, I'd also like to know whose blood you were covered with. Your clothes were crusted with it. We've tested it and found it to be human, and from a male, but that's all we know. The DNA doesn't hit on anything in any database." She hesitated. "And... if you don't mind me asking, and it's only if you feel like answering, can you tell me why you were found covered in white rose petals? They were all over you."

Augusta took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I'm not a bad person. I heard that's why most people are called into Silent Hill these days. But for me, I was suffering for somebody else's sin. There was somebody who hated me, and he wanted me to suffer, so he called me to come to him in Silent Hill. He wanted to kill me but he's dead now. In fact, I think he's been dead for a few years."

Cybil only nodded. It was as if she had heard similar stories from others before.

"What's today?" Augusta asked.

"Sunday."

"Only Sunday?" It seemed as though she had been in Silent Hill for a year, or a lifetime.

Only Sunday. Cybil nodded again.

"If that's the case, then this whole mess started Friday morning, just after breakfast..."

They talked until long after the tape ran out, and Augusta told Cybil everything she could remember. Cybil responded with her own memories. Five years ago, she had helped a man look for his daughter in Silent Hill. She had seen things she didn't dare talk about with anyone but others who had survived a time there. Sometimes she dreamed about them, but mostly she did as anyone else did – she got up in the morning, ate breakfast, told her husband she loved him, and went to work. In the evening, she came home and ate dinner, watched television, made love... To relax she played video games.

"You are a good person. I know that from what you told me," she said to Augusta. "So, I suggest you follow my lead. Try not to dwell on what happened. Go home toNorth Carolinaand just live. Day in, day out. Just live and do your damnedest to enjoy it. Try to find something you really, truly enjoy – some sort of hobby – something to carry you through when you find that you just can't stop thinking about what you've been through. It will come in very handy."

Cybil wrote a phone number on a piece of paper from her notebook, tore it out and folded it, and handed it to Augusta.

"If it ever gets to be too much, call me." She smiled at her. "But I think you'll be okay. You're one tough lady. I'm living proof that a person can live and thrive even after going through an ordeal like Silent Hill, and I'd like for you to be also."

She paused. "I don't think you'll have much trouble with that, though."

Augusta lay in her bed, staring out the window at the traffic on Lynch Street for a long time after Cybil left. There was still nothing worth watching on television, but it was just as well. She wanted to think. And remember.