Oh my God, Buffy groans as she's tugged along behind the nurse who's just finished inserting tubes into extremely intimate places.

That never happens to the coma people on TV!

She glances back at her room as the nurse peels off her gloves and dumps them in a trash can outside the door, pumping disinfectant into her hands.

Buffy shudders. I'm so glad I wasn't in my body for that.

The nurse moves to one side to let a patient be wheeled by. He's muttering. Shaking. Buffy turns to watch him.

And jolts.

His face is…

It's there but it's not. Like the essence of a face has been taken away and all that's left is a child's drawing. An unfinished caricature of a person; blank eyes, thin mouth, large nose, nothing underneath, and Buffy's heart races as he swings his gaze her way.

Oh my God—

Is he having a stroke?!

But he's not, that's definitely not what it is, he's sitting up, and the nurses are chatting to him as they wheel him down the corridor—

But… but he's—

Buffy strains to watch as the nurse starts walking down the corridor again.

Did no one else see that?!

"Hannah!" calls over Rachel who's writing up another report behind the nurses station. "Sorry to heap on, but Mr Peters is overdue for a sponge bath."

No, Buffy pleads as Hannah rolls her eyes with an amused huff of the deeply put-upon, and answers, "Sure, I'm on it."

No! No, Hannah's not on it!

"Thanks, hun!" Rachel calls after her, typing furiously.

No-no, no! Buffy begs as Hannah turns into a supply closet, gathering up clothes, fresh sheets, liquid soap, and gloves, and depositing them into a large plastic bowl.

Someone save me!

A short walk to the end of the corridor brings them to another patient's room with an elderly man tucked up under white sheets.

"Morning, Mr Peters!" Hannah cries, bustling in and depositing the bowl on the overbed table and removing the assortment of shower paraphernalia. "Ready to get washed up?"

Mr Peters grunts in agreement just as Buffy tries to run towards the door again, ignoring the snapping elastic band of pressure depositing her-

Nuh-uh—

-back beside Nurse Hannah-

No way!

-each time-

PLEASE!

"You can't get out that way."

Buffy's head snaps round, jolting as Mr Peter's watery gaze pins her place, piercing through to her lungs and halting the breath in them.

What? she squeaks. Can you… can you—?

"I said, you can't—"

The nurse shushes him, rolling him forward so she can undo the robe's ties around his back—

And the connection finally breaks. Buffy lurches on her feet, blinking bewildered and out of breath—

By her mother's side.

"Mom?" she asks, still dazed from her Mr Peters' panic.

"...So we'll see what the blood work brings up," Dr Brice finishes saying as Joyce squeezes Buffy's limp hand.

"She didn't seem sick," she says hesitantly, her brow furrowing severely.

"Well infections can be tricky things," replied Dr Brice, shrugging with the practiced ease of having had iterations of this conversation hundreds of times. "Sometimes the symptoms seem to hit out of nowhere. I'm setting her on a course of antibiotics just right out the gate, and we'll go from there."

"It wasn't the incense was it?" Dawn asks, worrying at her lip, jellybean-sized tears wobbling in her waterline.

"I think that's very unlikely," Dr Brice says kindly. "I know it's scary, but we'll take good care of Buffy. If you need anything, or think of anything, Nurse Rachel is assigned to your sister and will be on call in the nurse's station."

"Thank you, Dr Brice," mumbles Joyce, her own eyes shining with worry.

Brice nods briskly, clips the clipboard onto the end of the bed, and heads for the door.

A heavy silence descends, the three of them looking at the supine Buffy body tucked in under white sheets, when Joyce suddenly jolts.

"Giles! Oh, I haven't called Giles," she gathers her purse.

Yes, finally! Buffy exclaims impatiently. Get him to bring all the magic mumbo jumbo and get me back in there!

Her eyes flicker to the tubes attached to bags hanging by the bed.

Ugh. Better late than never.

Joyce rummages through her wallet, checking she has coins for the payphone in the waiting room. "Dawn, can you stay here? I'll only be a minute."

"'Kay," Dawn mumbles, and Buffy is dragged out of the room after Joyce, heading with bustling speed towards the elevators.

She fidgets as the red dial counts up until it reaches her floor, and steps into it, adjusting her skirt.

Buffy sighs, leaning back against the mirrored wall.

A sniff turns her head.

Mom?

Joyce tilts her head back, closes her eyes, and sniffs again wetly. Deliberately not crying.

Mom, I'm fine, I'll— okay I'm not fine-fine but I swear, Giles will bippity-boppity-boop me out of this. It's just stupid Dawn stupid messed up—

"-The spell."

Buffy lands, dazed, next to Dawn. Her sister's hand on her forearm as she wipes away tears with the other.

"I'm sorry, I… I was trying to help, I was just trying to he-he-help," she gulps out, wiping out more tears as they spill in a torrent.

Dawnie, Buffy mutters and reaches out a hand, guilt crash landing where annoyance had previously stood. I know, sweetie, I—

She stops.

Dawn's not there.

And then suddenly she's back again, flickering in and out of reality with every sob.

Dawn?

"I didn't mean to," Dawn off "I didn't mean to Buffy," Dawn on "I just-" off "I just-" on "I—"

Dawn?!

Something's wrong!

Her eyes dart around the room, the walls, the windows. It all seems so normal. So boringly, hauntingly normal. But…

Something's wrong with this place.