She awoke with a start sometime in the wee hours of the morning. She had fallen asleep in the chair while pondering the mysteries of life and now her neck ached and her elbows and knees were stiff. She stretched to work out the kinks and looked out of the window. The streetlights looked like glowing orange holes punched in a solid wall of darkness. Her eyes scanned the street in front of the diner, but nothing moved, nothing shifted ominously. A sudden yawn broke her reverie, and, realizing that nothing would be solved tonight, the Slayer crawled into bed.

She felt much better when she woke up in the morning; the cumulative effect of the previous afternoon's work and her impromptu nap in the chair was much less pronounced than the aftermath of Sunday's Cheech'n'Chong Appreciation Day. She wiped away the condensation from the bathroom mirror and stared at the face of her reflection.

A week. She'd basically been here a week. After being in motion since she booked it out of Sunnydale, she had landed in this backwater, all because she'd fallen asleep in the wrong car at the wrong time. This place should give her the screaming meemies: a dying spot on a two-lane highway, populated by people who were either too old, too damaged, or too frightened to go anywhere else, dead-end people living dead-end lives, worse than Sunnydale, a declining town of people who had known each other all their lives, who all knew she didn't belong the minute they saw her.

And yet, here she was, because of forty dollars a day with no questions asked. And Lewis, who avoided looking at her in her sweaty shirt like a medieval knight turning away from a virgin bathing in the moonlight, yeah, Lewis was a hoot. And Tori, who'd been cool enough to share her weed with someone she'd just met. And Dalton, who–

Faith grinned at her image, a smile that shaded a little toward the predatory. Yeah, be honest, Dalton, who needed his ass kicked, and Faith Lehane might not have a sockful of redeeming qualities, but she was Grade-A at kicking ass, 100% USDA Prime, and that little shit was in the middle of something, she could smell it (literally, kinda), and she was going to figure out what it was. Her mood buoyed considerably, she skipped down the stairs into the diner. Ben's head poked through the doorway leading to the kitchen. "Someone's disposition is improved."

"Yeah," she said as she pushed past him. "An afternoon of hard work in the outdoors always reforms us juvenile delinquents."

"Okay. Just glad you're feeling better." He nodded and went to the counter as Faith stepped into the kitchen. She came back out, tying her bandanna around her head.

"Hey," she said, "does this town have a laundromat?"

Ben looked up from dressing the counter. "Beth's back home. You could do your laundry at her place."

Faith shook her head. "Major 'no sir' there."

Ben opened his mouth, then thought better of whatever he had been about to say. "You could use the washer and dryer down here. I could loan you the key."

"Too much responsibility." Faith tipped her head to one side. "Is. There. A. Laundromat? If there is, I'm mint."

"Yeah." Ben pointed down the state highway, back the way Faith had arrived. "You go to the end of the block, take a left, it's fifty feet or so back that way."

"Cool," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out couple of ones, change from last night's dinner. "If you give me some quarters, I'll be five by five."

It was about fifty feet from the highway to the laundromat, which fronted a decaying asphalt street, the surface of the roadway patched multiple times and the edges crumbling into the encroaching grass. The building itself looked like some sort of prefab construction, with an uneven concrete stoop leading to a peeling front door. An eight-foot-wide apron of gravel circled the building, except for the southeast corner, where the gravel had been washed away. The rutted surface was damp and muddy; it appeared the the drains from the washers simply dumped out onto the ground. Faith shook her head as she pushed on the door; it was warped and stuck at the bottom, so she had to give it a little effort. Sickly light filtered through the grimy windows and the linoleum felt gritty beneath her boots. Faith felt right at home.

Six washing machines stood against the far wall, three dryers along either end wall, and two scratched and dented steel tables in the middle of the room. Faith hoisted her bag onto the table, pulled out her laundry, and tossed it willy-nilly into the machine. She fed in the quarters and slammed the coin drawer home. As the tub began to fill, the Slayer hopped up on the table and let her mind wander, assembling what she knew in first one order, then another.

The laundry cycle finished with a loud clunk and the spinning agitator began to slow. Faith grabbed an armful of wet clothes and dumped it into the bag. Paying to dry clothes was a sucker bet when she had a little space and the sun was free. She went back to the apartment and spread everything out to dry, draping garments over the armchair, the occasional table, the towel bar, and the shower curtain, until the space looked like a Wet Seal had exploded. The library book lay on the floor underneath the window. It might be a good night to read a little more, and Faith shook her head at the thought. Still, there wasn't much else to do, and the story was good. Dinner, then some book time.

She hit the sidewalk and turned right. The sidewalk in front of the buildings was in shadow, but across the street and down at the intersection the slanting rays of the sun were still bright and cheerful. She sauntered down the sidewalk, relishing the cool air and the quiet. Not that she would ever be a nun or anything, not while there were clubs to hit and dance floors to wow, but this was nice. She traversed the intersection, then crossed the highway to the convenience store. Through the window she saw Tori seated at the register. Tori saw her as well and waved. Faith offered a waist-high two-finger response, then pushed open the door. "Hey, what are you doing?"

Tori shrugged. "I work nights on Tuesdays and Thursdays, then the weekends."

Faith mulled that over. "Is your mom cool with that?"

"Why wouldn't she be? It's not like we don't need the money, and I get most of my homework done on the bus ride home from school."

"So you ride the bus instead of driving?" Faith cocked her head slightly.

"Sure." Tori made a face. "I mean, I know it's kind of lame for a senior to ride the bus, but why should I pay for gas if the school's providing a ride for free?"

"Hey, no judgment here." Faith motioned toward the back of the store. "I'm gonna grab something for dinner." 'Something' turned out to be three frozen burritos and a bag of potato chips. The burritos went into the microwave and came out, as all microwaved burritos do, slightly hotter than the surface of the sun. Faith left them to cool on a napkin beside the microwave as she went to the soda fountain, then the register. "Here," she said, "three burritos, a bag of those chips, and-" She held up the soda cup. Tori rang everything up, then Faith went back to pick up her entree. She was just about to nudge the door open with one hip when Tori spoke.

"You, uh, you could eat that here," she said. "If you want to hang out."

Faith looked around. "No place to sit."

"Oh," Tori said, "that's okay, come back here and sit with me. There's another stool."

"Isn't that against company policy or something?" The Slayer asked. Tori shrugged.

"It's a Tuesday night. We'll be lucky if two cars stop to gas up." She glanced too-casually out the window. "I'd kinda enjoy the company."

"Sure, why not." Faith went around the L-shaped counter; Tori held the waist-high gate open. The Slayer took the offered seat and peeled back the cellophane from one of the burritos and took a bite. "Mmmmmm," she moaned, "melty yellow cheese, take me away."

"Can I ask you a question?" Tori nibbled on her lip.

Faith swallowed. "Sure. I mean, we've been in a fight and smoked weed together. What's left?"

Tori squinted one eye. "You don't go to school."

Faith finished her burrito, then took a draw on her soda and unwrapped the next belly bomb. "I notice that wasn't a question."

"Well, because it's pretty obvious, but, I guess that was kinda the setup." Tori seemed nervous. "Don't your parents care?" She hunched her shoulders slightly.

The Slayer shook her head. "Relax, Piglet." She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. "I dunno, they might care." She stared at the window over Tori's head. "I didn't exactly run away… My folks knew I was leaving."

Tori frowned. "And they were okay with that?"

Faith sighed. "My parents didn't want to be parents, they just wanted to screw, but they weren't careful, so…" She gestured with her left hand, encompassing herself from head to toe. "They liked to take turns reminding the other one that I ruined their life."

"Ugh." Tori recoiled. "That's awful."

"Ah, it's more common than you think in Southie." Faith finished her second burrito and ripped open the chips.

"Southie?"

"Souf Bofton," the Slayer mumbled around a mouthful of crisp salty goodness.

"That's all the way across the country," Tori said. "You came out here all by yourself?"

"No, I-" Faith felt her throat close up and she coughed several times.

"Are you all right?" Tori asked.

The Slayer took a drink and swallowed. "I started with someone else. She's gone now."

"Oh. Okay." Tori suddenly noticed a spot on the counter that needed to be rubbed out. "So, how did you end up here?"

Faith shrugged as she picked up her third burrito. "Pure accident." She bit into the gooey wrap.

"Were you in a gang?"

"What?" Faith arched her eyebrows as she took a drink.

"Well, I just… the way you fought, when Dalton was here, I mean, that was some real Cynthia Rothrock stuff. Did you learn that in a gang?"

"No," Faith said flatly. "I do not work or play well with others. I just scuffled a lot, you know, practice makes perfect." Faith took a pull at the straw and heard the guttering of an empty cup. She went back to the fountain and refilled. "Speaking of the other night, what is with that douchebag?" Tori shrugged. Faith returned the noncommittal gesture and moseyed back to the counter. One of the fluorescent lights buzzed as she wolfed down the rest of the third burrito and took a long drink. "Does he just have the run of the town?" she asked, lowering her cup. "Is everybody scared of him?"

"Everybody's scared of his dad." Tori rubbed the counter again; at this rate, she'd be through the formica before closing. "But, yeah, on one wants to mess with Dalton, either."

"Because of his dad?" Faith tipped the cup toward the other girl.

Tori nodded. "Kinda."

"Okay," the Slayer said, "I'll bite. What makes his dad so gnarly?"

"He's done time in prison, for one thing." Tori stood up. "I'm gonna straighten the magazines."

"Sure," Faith said, "I'll come with." She followed the smaller girl down the aisle. "So, his dad's been in the joint. For what?"

"I'm not a hundred percent sure," Tori said. "I was just a kid when he went away, but I know it was bad."

"Like what? Jaywalking?"

Tori shook her head as she moved magazines around the rack. "He killed somebody, or almost killed them, something like that. I remember all the grown-ups were really spooked, and they'd do that thing, you know, when they're talking, and they notice that you're listening, so they start talking about something else?"

Faith nodded. "Know it well."

"Well, his dad got out of prison-"

"Was it raining? Was there a pickup truck? A dog? Anybody get run over by a train?"

"Huh?" Tori looked at Slayer, completely confused.

"Nothing," Faith said. "Reminded me of an old song. Go on."

Tori raised both hands, palms up. "Dalton was always in trouble in school, you know, he was that kid who couldn't stand in line, couldn't wait his turn, that kind of thing, you know?"

Faith felt a pang of self-awareness. "Yeah, I do."

"But after his dad came back, it got worse." Both girls jumped as the bell dinged, signifying that someone had pulled up to the pumps. Faith looked past Tori, almost expecting to see Dalton Beck climb out of his shiny F150 as though their conversation had summoned him, but it was a schlubby middle-aged guy who cast a long shadow across the concrete as he filled his tank in the declining light. He hung up the hose, then came in. Tori hurried to the register, Faith trailing in her wake, to take the two twenties he pulled out of his wallet.

"Gonna be a nice night," he said. Both girls stared at him. He looked from one to the other, a little nonplussed, then put his change in his wallet and went to his car, throwing one last quizzical look at the store before pulling onto the highway. They watched as his car disappeared over the slight rise into town.

"Okay," Faith said. "What do you mean, 'it got worse'?"

Tori's face scrunched up. "I don't know, it kinda sounds dumb, but… before, he'd push you if you were in line, but now, he'd punch you. Hard." She shivered. "Or he'd back you into a corner, just kind of keep you there, like he was letting you know he could." She headed back to the magazine rack.

"How old were you?" The Slayer felt the muscles tighten in the back of her neck.

"Starting middle school?" Tori bit her lip, her large, even white teeth worrying the tissue. "I remember because it felt, I don't know, I couldn't explain it back then, but it felt kind of…" She shrugged and shifted periodicals into place.

Faith's nostrils flared. "Rapey." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah," Tori said, "but not anything you could ever explain to a teacher or anybody, but I remember, it definitely felt like… like he wanted you to know that's what he was thinking of." She turned to look at the Slayer. "Does that make sense?"

Faith clenched her fist and crumpled the empty cup into a tight ball, then turned and threw it at the trash can beside the door. It flew straight and true, and hit hard enough to rattle the metal. "Make sense? It gives me a flashback." She looked down. "Sorry." Crushed ice and melt water spattered the floor.

Tori put her hands on her hips. "I'll get the mop." She went into the back. Faith stood rooted to the floor, working through what she'd heard. Her reverie was broken by the squeak and clack of the mop bucket as Tori pushed the scuffed yellow plastic receptacle across the floor. Faith watched the other girl wring out the well-used gray mop. Tori cleaned up the spill, then looked at the Slayer. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure. I'm an open book."

Tori hesitated, then worked the wringer handle, forcing water out of the mop. "Why are you asking me this stuff? Why do you want to know about Dalton?"

Faith considered this for a moment. "I've met him twice. Both times, I ended up throwing hands. Maybe I'd like to understand why he's in such a hurry to get punched in the nuts."

"Would understanding it change anything?" Tori stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. The magazines looked shipshape and the floor gleamed where the mop had run across it. She wheeled the bucket into the back, then came back to the register and resumed her seat. "I mean, does understanding Freddy Krueger save anybody?"

"Well, Freddy Krueger's a ghost, so... but, yeah, that's what gives them the power to stop him." Faith plucked a copy of Teen People out of the rack; a headline reading 'Makeup Secrets of the Stars' ran across Jennifer Love Hewitt's bare belly. She sauntered to the counter and hopped on the other stool.

"But did they stop him? i remember the end of the movie." Tori's voice sounded deeply sad. "None of them ever stop, not Freddy, or Jason, or Michael Myers."

"Did he do that to you a lot, the corner stuff? You, in particular?"

Tori dropped her head. "Yeah. I got my boobs early, so…" She shrugged.

"Hey," Faith said. "Don't. Don't do that. You didn't do shit."

"I know that, I mean, that's what all the books say," the other girl said, "but he never bothered Lynda. I mean, she was tall and skinny until we got to high school and he just didn't seem… interested in her."

Faith leafed through an article about JLH doing a spinoff from Party of Five. "Does he still do it?"

Tori's fingernails tapped on the register drawer. "He's not in school, but, yeah, he still does stuff like the other night. I just... I just try to get through it and stay away from him whenever I can."

Faith flipped pages in the magazine without seeing them. "It sounds like Dalton's a douchebag by birth and by background. That's not on you."

"Yeah." Tori propped one foot on the rungs of her stool. "But you stood up to him."

The Slayer stared down at the magazine so she wouldn't have to look in the other girl's eyes. "Because he only understands being told to fuck off. Anything else is too subtle for him."

"How do you know that?"

Faith finally looked at the other girl. "Because I'm kinda the same way."

Tori looked exasperated. "Okay, you probably were in a lot of fights, based on what I've seen so far, but… you weren't like that, were you?"

"What if I was?" Faith tilted her head; the tip of her tongue touched her lower lip.

Tori squinted slightly, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

The Slayer tossed the magazine onto the counter. "What if I was like that? What if I fought people because I liked it? What if I told you that breaking a guy's arm scratched an itch way down deep inside that nothing else could touch? What if I took on Dalton just because I wanted to see who had the bigger pair?" She shrugged. "Metaphorically, of course."

"I don't believe that," the other girl said.

The Slayer leaned toward her. "Don't make me a hero, that's just a sandwich. Sometimes the only difference between the bad guy and the good guy is who you're standing behind."

A stubborn expression came over Tori's face. "No. You're not like Dalton. You wouldn't hurt people for fun."

Faith sighed and stood up. "No offense, kiddo, but just because we got high in the same room doesn't mean you know me." She fixed the smaller girl with a hard, flat stare that caused Tori to squirm. "You don't. I've hurt people lots of different ways for lots of different reasons, because I was angry, or just because I could."

Tori flushed dark red. "Maybe you don't know yourself as well as you think."

Faith blinked like a boxer who had been caught flat-footed by a punch they didn't see coming. She glanced down at Jennifer Love Hewitt's PG-13 sultry look. "Well," the Slayer said, "thanks for the chat, but I gotta go. I need to fold laundry and finish reading a book." Her voice felt a little stiff in her mouth.

Tori blinked, her lips compressed tight and her chin quivering. "Don't be mad. I didn't mean to sound harsh, but you're not like Dalton. You stood up to him."

Faith closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I hope you never find out how wrong you are," she said, "but… thanks for thinking better of me." She pushed through the door and into the last dim twilight. As the Slayer crossed the dark highway, remembered words echoed in her head.

"Come on, Lindsay. I killed him."

"Yes, you did, but that's not the point."

"Well then, what is the point? I thought I was supposed to kill vampires."

"You are."

"Then case closed, over and out."

"Faith, what's the biggest difference between today and two weeks ago?"

"Two weeks ago, I was getting my ass kicked. Now, I'm the one doing the kicking. Fuck Ricky Gennaro."

"Exactly. Faith, your powers are not for your own personal vendettas."

"What?"

"Revenge. These abilities are not for revenge. They're for the protection of the human race."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. With great power comes great responsibility. I read Spider-Man."

"It's true. You're strong, but you're also dangerous. If you had hit a person the way you hit that vampire, you would have killed them."

"Jesus, Lindsay, I get these cool powers, and now you tell me I have to act like a wuss."

"No. I am saying that you have to be able to control yourself."

"Are you gonna make being Supergirl boring, too?"

"Faith, I know how tempting these powers are-"

"No, you don't, Lindsay, you really don't. Nobody gave a shit about me. Old ladies grabbed their purses when they saw me coming, the cops… the cops'd bang a Uey just to give me a hard time. Everybody in my life knew I was headed for juvie, but now? Now, I'm a goddamn hero."

"Not yet, but you can be. Heroes aren't defined by their strength, they're defined by how and why they use it."

"Okay, well, then, Miss Watcher, how am I supposed to use it, huh?"

"I don't know, exactly, but I promise that I'll be here to help you. I won't leave you."

A chilly breeze brushed Faith's cheek and caused her eyes to water. She rubbed her face. "Yeah, and look where that ended you up, Linz." The darkness tried to seep into the orange circles cast by the streetlights. When Faith unlocked the door, the apartment seemed very empty. She grabbed the T-shirts that were spread over the armchair and tossed them onto the bed, then scooped up the library book from the floor as she dropped into the cushions. She stared out at the night for a few minutes. The evening had gotten unexpectedly heavy, and she felt that weight pressing down on her now. She shook herself and opened the book. Maybe it would lighten her mood.

It was late, well after midnight, when she put the book down. Once she got back into it, she had to keep going until she was finished. When she turned the last page, she looked out the window into the peculiar blackness of the post-midnight hours. The hero finished the job and moved on, a self-contained unit. No muss, no fuss, no complications. Faith yawned, suddenly aware of the late hour and her fatigue. She dropped the book on the occasional table as she shuffled by, then collapsed into bed, not bothering to move the T-shirts she'd thrown there earlier.

Faith's arms and hands washed dishes, but her brain was busy working on its own track. She barely heard the chatter from the diner, both because she was distracted by her own thoughts and because the rhythm had grown so familiar. She was barely aware of Ben's coming and going, and the clock read two-thirty before she knew it.

"Want a sandwich?" Ben asked.

Faith shrugged. "What kind?"

He shook his head. "Super simple. Roast beef with horseradish mayo on a Kaiser roll."

"Sure," Faith said. "I'm up for a Hot Box."

"If you'll wipe down the tables and lock up, I'll make one." Faith didn't need to be asked twice. She came back into the kitchen to find the sandwich on a white china plate, a small ramekin of dark liquid beside it. "I threw in some au jus," Ben said. "You eat. I need to make some phone calls." The Slayer carried the plate out of the kitchen and placed it on the counter, then pulled herself a soda from the fountain. The sandwich was fantastic, as usual. She polished it off and carried the plate to the kitchen. As she washed up, Ben went to the register and returned with two twenties.

"Thanks." Faith pocketed the money. "Man, if you sliced that yourself, I need to take knife lessons from you." As Ben's face darkened, Faith remembered Lewis's story and mentally kicked herself in the ass. He shook his head.

"See you tomorrow?"

She nodded. "Yeah." She left the diner and went upstairs. She had over $200 in cash now. That was enough of a stake to last for a while. She grabbed the book she had finished and headed to the library.

Ethel wasn't behind the desk. Faith paused, confused. The librarian, a woman who could have been thirty-five or sixty, looked at her. "Can I help you?"

"I, uh, I need to return this." Faith held up the book. "But I don't have a library card."

"Oh." The librarian looked at a notepad beside her. "Did she check that out on Ben Stillwell's card?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Well, I can check it in for you." The woman tore a page from the notepad. "And here are some other books she thought you might like."

Faith crossed to the desk and exchanged the book for the note. "She did?"

"Oh, yeah. Ethel's a stitch. She taught English at the high school for years, then was the librarian after she retired until they closed it down." The woman shook her head. "If anyone shows the slightest interest in reading…"

Faith looked at the piece of paper. "Where are these?"

"Here." The librarian came around the counter. "Let me see. I'll find them for you." The Slayer handed over the note and the woman disappeared into the shelves, leaving Faith with a weird sense of deja vu as she remembered the way Giles would head for the stacks. The woman came back in a few minutes, a half-dozen books in her hand. She placed them on a table. "Look through them, see what you like."

Faith pulled out a chair and sat down. One of the books was a thin paperback with a hatchet on the cover. She immediately placed that one to the side, then picked up another volume. "Do you know what this one's about?" she asked.

The librarian looked over the counter, squinting slightly across the distance. "Oh, I know that author. Lots of people who like mysteries love him. That's one of his series, it's about a Native American woman who helps people disappear."

Faith looked at the cover, impressed. "Cool." She stood up. "I'll take these two, and the others…" Her voice trailed away.

"Just put them here on my desk," the librarian said. "I'll put them back on the shelves." She pulled out her trusty stamp pad. "So, you want these two… I'll put them on Ben's card." She peered at her computer monitor. "There and… there." She stamped the slip glued into the front of each book. "There you go. Enjoy."

Faith stepped out into the afternoon light, the two books in her hand. Back in the apartment, she cracked open the thin paperback and began reading. The story was about a kid who was taking a bush plane to visit his dad after he found out his parents were getting a divorce. He was thirteen, which piqued her interest.

And then, on page ten, the pilot had a heart attack.

She was well and truly hooked as the kid tried to land the plane. She had lost track of time when the guttering burble of an engine broke her concentration. Faith looked up, irritated, in time to see two pickups roll past on the street, headed west out of town. The lead pickup was a shiny F150, the color hard to detect in the last dim rays of the sun, but it was dark, maybe blue, maybe black. The other one was a beater missing its rear bumper. As the Slayer looked out the window, she heard the engine downshift, then the squeal of tires, then the wash of headlights appeared as the trucks drove back the other way. She shook her head and picked up the book, but her focus was gone. Sighing, she tossed the book onto the occasional table, then grabbed her hoodie and clomped down the stairs.

The street was empty, which made that slight sense of unease and corruption that wafted through the town at night even more unsettling. She went to the intersection and turned right, but halfway down the block, she could see that the hangout barn was dark. She retraced her steps, then crossed the county highway. The pickups were not at the convenience store. Faith looked to her right, down the incline, and saw them, parked in front of the grocery store. She zipped up her hoodie and stuffed her fists into the kangaroo pocket as she traipsed down the slope to where the sidewalk ended at the parking lot's edge. She crossed the asphalt and stepped through the automatic door. The lone cashier was a young woman Faith didn't recognize or remember seeing, but when she looked at the Slayer, her eyes were panicky. The cashier's hands moved nervously on the counter in front of her and she was trying with all of her might to not look back into the store. Faith could hear laughter and movement, then the crash of something metal hitting the floor. The young woman flinched.

Faith went up to her. "Anybody else in the store?"

The other woman bit her lip. "There's two stockboys, Scott 'n' Luke."

The Slayer nodded. "Where are they?"

"They went in the back." The skin around the cashier's eyes tightened.

Faith nodded and took a twenty out of her pocket. "Could I get two rolls of nickels?"

The cashier blinked and swallowed. "Wh- What?"

"Nickels. Could you open the drawer and give me two rolls of nickels?"

"Uh, yeah." The cashier's movements were jerky as she punched a button on the register. The voices quieted slightly at the sound of the register bell, then rose again as the young woman took out two buff-colored tubes with blue stripes on the end. "Here." As Faith handed over the twenty, the young woman said, "Let me get your change."

The Slayer held up a hand. "Give it to me later." She slipped the nickels into the pocket of her hoodie, then grabbed a cart. She ducked into an aisle and waited. Soon enough, Dalton Beck and four toadies appeared, pushing a cart loaded with four cases of beer. The cart rammed into the register island and the cashier flinched. Dalton and his thugs laughed as two of them peeled off and went around through an empty check-out to stand behind the young woman. Dalton stood at the end of the conveyor belt, then the cart full of beer, then two of his cronies, with the other two penning the cashier in from behind.

"Hey, what time do you get off?" Dalton asked. "Or maybe I should say, what time are you through with work?" His lackeys laughed, and the mean edge in their amusement raised the hackles on Faith's neck.

"I'm, I'm here until eight," the cashier stammered.

One of the toadies behind her leaned forward. "When you're done, why don't you come party with us?"

"Yeah. We could make sure you get off by nine." Dalton's laugh was cruel and ugly. Faith rolled her eyes and gripped the handle of her cart, then turned and went toward the back of the store. She hung a right and came up the aisle directly behind them, speeding up until she sprinted the last few open feet. The cronies barely had time to turn their heads before the steel mesh of the cart slammed into their legs and set off a chain reaction: they lurched into their cart, which shot forward and hit Dalton, the inertia of ninety-six cans of beer sending him staggering back.

Two of the thugs struggled to extricate themselves from the carts, while the other two charged around the register as Faith slipped her hands into her hoodie's pocket and came out with a roll of nickels in each hand. The first guy threw a roundhouse right. Faith stepped inside and allowed the punch to pass behind her, then slammed a hard right into his solar plexus, followed by a left hook to his kidneys. He groaned and dropped like a sack of feed. The second thug squared up, trying to be cagey. Faith kicked him in the balls. As he grabbed his crotch, she half-turned to her right, toward the minions trying to scramble around and over the cart. She kicked it, hard. It pinned one of the thugs between the carts again, but the other one had scrambled up onto an empty register conveyor. He leaped. Faith stepped out of the way and watched him land flat on his face on the hard floor, then kicked him in the back of the head. He went limp as she stepped over him and delivered a nickel-aided KO to the guy she'd kicked in the marbles. She had time for one quick breath, then the final lackey broke free. He grabbed her empty cart and whipped it around toward her. Faith brought up her fists as he jabbed the cart at her. She took a step back and he thrust the cart forward again. This time she jumped and came down on the front of the cart with her full weight. The handle was jerked from his grasp; the steel bar caught him under the jaw. Blood spurted from his mouth as he bit through his tongue. He collapsed to his knees, cradling his wounded face. Faith righted the cart, then looked across the registers at Dalton. He lifted his chin, defiant. She grabbed the beer cart and pushed it forward; he danced out of the way. Dalton glared at her, or tried to.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you," he said in a half-snarl, half-sob.

She shook her head. "Not unless you get a lot better." She patted one of the cases of beer. "Maybe you should switch to Zima." His lips twitched and he threw a hard overhand right. Faith pivoted on the ball of her left foot and let the blow go by, then shifted her weight and punched him in the gut. Dalton's face turned the color of wallpaper paste and he went to his knees, his arms crossed over his stomach, then he slowly bent forward and vomited.

Faith crouched in front of him, careful to avoid the puddle of puke. "Take these wicked stupid idjits and get the hell outta here. Go shoot pool at your shitty clubhouse." He made a weak back-handed swipe at her. Faith let it go by and gave him a little love-tap on the collarbone, then stood up. "Tell you what, since I ruined your party-" she turned to the cashier "-how much is the beer?"

The young woman stood up from the register well where she had been crouching. "T- Ten bucks a case."

"Here." Faith handed her the rolls of nickels. "Put those back in the register, keep the twenty." She turned to Dalton, who winced as he tried to rotate his arm. "Two cases, my treat. Just go drink it somewhere else, capisce?" Dalton tried to give her a hard look, but Faith just leaned against the end of the register, arms crossed. He struggled to his feet and stumbled around the registers. The guy who had bitten his tongue was at least conscious, although his Molly Hatchet T-shirt would never recover. He helped Kidney Punch to his feet; they helped Dalton drag the Kicked Twins (Head and Balls), groggy and concussed, to their staggering feet. Faith had the feeling that any one of them would have fallen down on his own; it took all five of them to simply maintain an upright posture. She grabbed two cases of beer from their cart and followed them out to the truck. As Dalton and Bloody Tongue loaded Kicked In The Head into the Ford and the other two into the beater truck, Faith dropped the beer in the bed of the F150. Bloody Tongue started the beater and backed out, then sped toward the highway and turned east. Dalton tried to look daggers at Faith as he went to the door of his truck.

"Oh, Dalton," the Slayer said. He turned to look at her. "This is strike three. You're out." He glared and his lips puckered. Faith held up a warning finger. "Uh, remember what I said about spitting and your balls." She jerked a thumb toward the highway. "Go home and drink your free beer." He got into the cab, leaned out and spit on the ground six inches from her boot, then put the truck in reverse. When he put the pickup in gear, Faith took three long steps to her left, putting her on the passenger side. If he did have any thoughts about running her down, he'd have to completely reorient the truck. She winked and pointed a finger-gun at him. He left a solid strip of rubber on the parking lot. Faith watched until the taillights had disappeared around a curve, then went back into the store. The cashier had a mop and was cleaning up the remains of Dalton's dinner. Faith grimaced.

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be." The young woman leaned on the mop and looked at the Slayer. "You the one that fought him at the convenience store?"

Faith nodded. "Yeah." The fluorescent lights hummed in the silence.

"I don't know you."

The Slayer bit her lip. "New in town."

"And this-" The cashier pointed toward the register and the two crashed carts "-was just a coincidence?" She stared at the Slayer, eyes raised.

Faith shook her head. "Nah."

The cashier nodded. "Good, 'cause I'm really glad you showed up, but if you tried to tell me that you just happened to come in and ask for two rolls of nickels, well…" She shook her head. "That's a bridge too far."

"You have much trouble with him?" Faith twitched her head toward the parking lot.

"He's always pulling something like that, here or over there." The cashier pointed across the highway. Faith looked in that direction and could see the convenience store all lit up. She turned back.

"He won't be back tonight, so I'm gonna book."

The cashier licked her lips. "You sure about that?"

"Yeah." Faith spoke over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "I know how hard I hit him."