Sunnydale shuts its mind against the inexplicable, locks its doors against the night. Life is simpler when it doesn't ask questions, swallows the newspaper's stories of gangs on PCP again, imagine them invading a nice place like this, what's the world coming to?
Simpler when it hurries home at dusk, oh, no reason really, just don't like to be out after dark, no, I didn't hear a thing, did you?
Simpler when it looks away from that little blond teenager staggering home at daybreak, covered with blood again. Must be getting in those gangfights; honestly, her mother should do something.