Faith's last thought before she collapsed onto the leaf-piled forest floor was What if it wasn't the only one but at that point, she was beyond caring. She had walked (or hobbled) the rest of the day, using the cameras to orient her path. She had a long cut on the outside of her right calf where the makeshift obsidian blade had sliced her flesh as the monster thrashed her about; her back hurt and she was pretty sure that the last glancing blow of the claws had done some damage. Her left shoulder ached where the beast's snout had punched her. She had kept going until the sun faded behind the mountains and still she continued until she tripped on a root and, falling to her knees, realized that she physically could not go a step further. She pitched forward on her face and passed out.

She awakened in the night, shivering from cold and shock. The dilapidated condition of her clothing provided even less warmth than before and, of course… Tears ran down her face as she gathered handfuls of leaves and piled them atop her body, trying to create some insulation. Exhausted by the effort, she lost consciousness again.

"Faith, stop. Stop!"

"Why? He's a bad guy, isn't he?"

"Yes, but he's a human."

"So?"

You're the Slayer. You're supposed to fight demons and supernatural evil."

"And the people who help them."

"Yes, there will be people who are allies, but you can't kill humans."

"Can't?"

"Okay, shouldn't."

"But didn't he choose to help those vamps?"

"Yes."

"Then why do I have to take it easy on him? I mean, sure vamps gotta be staked, but they're just being who they are, right? Isn't a human who chooses to help them worse?"

"Uh-"

"Why should I be soft on somebody who decides to be evil?"

"When did you get so philosophical?"

"That means I stumped you."

"No, it doesn't. That is a good question, and your position makes a kind of sense on the surface, but what you're not counting on is what killing will do to you."

"Huh?"

"Faith, a vampire or zombie or demon, every time you dispose of one of them, you're saving human lives, but if you take a human life, that will take a toll on you, and if you do it willfully, if you make a decision to do that, it'll take a piece of your soul with it."

"Like that old song?"

"What old song?"

"You know, Lindsay… 'Come on, come on and take, take another little piece of my heart', that one."

"Well, if that helps you understand it, fine, but I like to think of it another way. If you take a human life, you're doing what the demons want to do, and when you do what they do, you make yourself more like them."

When she finally woke up, hunger overwhelmed her. Apparently the metabolism that promoted healing and provided speed and strength got really angry when it was deprived of fuel. She had last eaten on… Sunday night? Then the abduction, one, two, three nights… was today Thursday? She stumbled getting up; 'cold and stiff' was number two on the hit parade after 'starving'. The water in the stream was frigid and clear and she drank as much as she could stand; maybe she could fool her gut into thinking it was full for at least a little while. As she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, Faith looked up at the cameras. Were they still watching? Did they know where she was? She dropped back into a crouch and thought. How many cameras had they seen? Dozens? How did they watch them? She felt dizzy and faint, but she closed her eyes and forced herself to concentrate. How did they watch them? Did they sit around in a room and watch them? The display would take up an entire wall. Did the whales just-

The final piece clicked into place like the last tumbler in a lock. The whales. Why were they at the casino? To gamble. What had Kyle said about that story? That the count thought men were the most dangerous game? Faith's breathing became fast and shallow as the scenario played out in her head: a girl taken, a girl no one would miss, or who everyone would believe had run off with her riverboat Prince Charming, waking up here, confused and sluggish, then running from that thing while the whales, the whales-

While they made bets on how long she would last. Faith's heart hammered in her ears. She had zero proof, but she didn't need it; she knew she was right, it all fit, every angle covered.

She pushed herself to her feet and staggered along the stream. Every so often she checked her direction against the sun and the cameras. She was trying to head toward the area of the fence where they had first encountered the beast; at least that would give her a fixed point. She could find the fence, then go in one direction or the other. It was a shitty plan, but it was a plan. She looked up at the cameras; were they still watching her? If she kept going, would they send someone out to find her? She asked the question over and over, even as part of her brain screamed at her that it was useless speculation; the larger portion of her consciousness replied that anything was preferable to focusing on how hungry and light-headed she was. Eventually she reached a conclusion: if everyone on the police force was in on it, then, yes, they would come for her, but if only one or two people knew, they couldn't risk exposure. She giggled: maybe exposure was what they were counting on, as in her dying of it.

She lurched through the forest as the sun made its progress through the sky. She tried to speed up as it began its descent toward the horizon; the thought of spending another night in the forest caused her guts to clench.

A space the width of her thumb separated the sun from the top of the highest mountains when she stumbled into the cleared space and almost ran head-on into the fence. She dropped to her knees. The barrier stretched out on either side; no signs or helpful wood-folk pointed her toward the gate.

"Yeah," she mumbled as she got to her feet, "why do we only have vampires and demons? Why can't Tinkerbell show up and help?" She turned left for no reason other than it was the direction they had been traveling when Evilupagus showed up. The sun continued to drop and she kept going toward it, fighting to keep panic at bay as the odds of another night in the woods grew.

When the gate appeared, she thought that she might be hallucinating. She stopped and stared at it, then leaned her forehead against the cold iron of the post and cried, just letting the tears run down her face, too exhausted for sobs, until she could regain control and examine the structure. The lock itself was complex, massive, and strong, the hinges less so. She just had to create a space big enough to slip through. Through the small openings she could see a road through the woods, a lane cut through the trees and floored with dirt and gravel, but a road all the same.

The bottom of the gate was the weak point. When it had been installed the lower bar would have been three or four inches off the ground, but where the ruts of vehicles had passed through the ground had been packed down. The Slayer studied the gap for a moment, then went looking. She found a small tree, barely more than a sapling that had been knocked over when the strip had been bulldozed, and dragged it to the gate, where she jammed the narrow end under the bar, then used a rock, big enough to require two hands, as a hammer to drive it in further. She stumbled and fell, mashed her fingers between rock and root, and swore plenty, but just as the mountains laid hands on the sun, her improvised wedge had raised the bottom of the gate a couple of inches. Faith laid down flat in the dusty, rock-strewn tire track and shimmied forward. Her head slipped under, then her shoulders, before her ribs stuck. She closed her eyes, exhaled every molecule of air in her lungs, then gritted her teeth and pulled her body forward. It felt like the skin was being peeled off her back, but skin would grow back, and that was preferable to remaining inside that hellish enclosure. Her heels finally cleared the gate and she rested her cheek on the ground and just breathed for a moment before getting to her feet. There were no cameras on any of the trees that she could see outside the killing ground, but Faith slipped into the forest anyway and followed the track at a distance. The very tip-top of the sun was just visible over the mountains by the time she stumbled out of the nightmare. She pushed through the last line of trees and stood by the edge of a highway: filthy, cold, bleeding, exhausted, and hungry, but, above all, royally pissed. She looked to her right and saw only the dark shapes of the hills against the rapidly-appearing stars. She looked to the left and saw, far on the horizon, a dim incandescent glow. She swallowed, rolled her neck, and started limping toward the distant light. She kept alert for the oncoming cars; somebody might be responding to her challenge. She was so focused on what was ahead of her that she was caught off-guard when a vehicle came over the rise behind her and pinned her with its headlights. For a split-second, she considered ducking into the woods, but they had seen her. She scraped her boots over the shoulder of the highway, trying to establish some solid footing. The showdown would come sooner or later; sooner was just as good. She was done with running and with being cold and hungry.

The vehicle went past her and rolled to a gradual stop, which seemed weird. In the dark it was a smooth oval blob; the glare of the tail lights and brake lights kept her from making out any details. It sat there for a moment, no armed men boiling out of the interior (although it couldn't have carried that many men anyway), then the backup lights flared and it rolled back toward her. The Slayer clenched her fists.

"What happened to you?"

Faith blinked. The voice could have belonged to Joyce Summers, it carried that much mom-mojo across the ribbon of asphalt. "Uh, I was hiking, and I… got lost."

"Don't you have a pack?"

"I did, but, uh, I fell in the river… it all got swept away."

"Well, where are you headed?"

"I don't know, I'm really, really lost… I was just heading toward-" Faith gestured to her left, toward the glow "-town."

"Goodness. Well, you just stay there for a minute. I've got some blankets in the back, I'll put one down over the seat." The engine died and the driver's side door opened. By the illumination of the dome lamp, Faith could make out a car seat against the far door. She could only see the driver in silhouette until the rear hatch opened. The driver was the pretty side of plain, with short brown hair in a sensible bob and a sweater over what looked to be chino pants. "There." The woman stepped back to show that the back seat was indeed covered by a blanket. "You get in."

Faith hesitated, then shook her head. Nobody ran an operation this deep-cover, not in the sticks. "Thanks," she said and climbed into the minivan beside an empty baby seat. A half-eaten package of animal crackers was wedged against the back of the seat.

"Here." The woman handed her a bottle of Gatorade. "You drink this." She slid the door shut, got in the driver's seat, then looked in the rearview mirror. "Buckle up." Faith did so, then cracked the seal on the Gatorade and let her hand drift toward the animal crackers.

The minivan pulled up outside the small motel. The woman looked in the rearview mirror. "Do you need anything else?"

"No." Faith shook her head. She had finally stopped shivering. "I'll just get a new room key and then, after a hot shower, I'll be set."

The woman nodded briskly; the issue was put to bed. "Well, I'm certainly glad that you weren't hurt."

"Yeah." Faith had one foot out the door. "Hated to lose that backpack. It was bitchi- nice."

"Better a backpack than your life." This was apparently sage advice.

"Thanks," Faith said. She paused at the door; she could see the minivan's reflection. It wasn't moving. The Slayer tugged open the door, then the minivan pulled away. Faith ducked her head and turned her face away from the counter, but whoever was on duty was in the office: probably a kid reading or watching TV. She crossed the lobby and turned left down the hall, past the elevators and to the secondary exit. She pushed the door open and disappeared into the void of night.

Sixteen ounces of Gatorade and half a box of animal crackers would only keep her going for so long. She needed to find food and somewhere to rest, recuperate, and figure out her next step. She kept to side streets and alleys as she wracked her brain. Cheyanne and Wendi would be at the house, or at least Cheyanne would; Wendi might be out somewhere at something. Faith crouched in the mouth of an alley, looking both ways, then sprinted across the deserted street, or at least tried to sprint: she limped like Walter Brennan. She made it to the opposite side of the street and bent over in the dark, hands on knees. The town was laid out with houses facing the street and alleys behind for access by utility crews. She crept through the dark, counting houses as she passed. She eased across the back yard, using the shadow of a large maple tree and the small shed to cover her approach, then slowly, slowly snuck around the side of the house. She could hear the TV playing as she poked her head around the corner of the house, keeping low to the ground.

A police cruiser was parked on the opposite side of the street one door down. Faith pulled back and duck-walked to the backyard, then crossed into the alley. She stood in the dark, hands on knees, nerve ends humming like a high-tension wire, exhausted, hurt, covered in dried, stinking mud, and hungry, above all, hungry. She finally straightened up and pushed her crusty hair back from her face.

"Get it together," she demanded of herself. "You didn't get out of those woods to lose your shit in an alley." She thought for a moment; there was only one place that might be safe. The Slayer sighed and set off into the inky night.

There was no cop car on the street outside Kyle's house, but Faith took no chances. She worked her way around the back of the house twice, pausing under each window. She detected nothing: no sound, no movement, no sense of life inside. She climbed the three concrete steps, laid her hand on the doorknob, took one last glance into the dark, then twisted and pushed. It was an old door and an old lock; the facing splintered easily. She paused, holding her breath, but the house stayed still and inert, with none of the thousand flickering stimuli produced by any presence. She eased the door shut, weight on her toes as she slipped the knife from her waistband. Her breathing stayed shallow as she moved through the house, moving low around corners, checking every shadow until she was absolutely, positively sure it was unoccupied. Task accomplished, she finally listened to her body and returned to the kitchen. There was baloney and beer in the refrigerator.

It was glorious. She crammed the pink discs into her mouth as fast as she could chew and swallow, then twisted the top off a bottle and drained it. She reached for another, then pulled back. Pounding beers on an empty stomach might not be the smartest thing in the world. She closed the refrigerator door, cutting off the glow of the fifteen-watt bulb, and waited until her eyes adjusted to the faint wash of light from outside. Once she could move without banging into anything, she opened the cabinets until she found one that contained Kyle's glasses: two empty jelly jars. She filled one with water and drank, once, twice, then looked some more. She found a box of corn flakes. She grabbed handfuls of cereal and ate, ate until the box was empty, then drank more water. She wiped her mouth on her forearm and belched before putting the glass on the counter and slipping into the living room.

It hit her hard. They had sat on the sagging sofa in this room, listened to music, watched movies. Now it was empty, barren, ghostly threads of weak light peeking around the edges of the blinds, the couch looking less shabby chic and more broken down and abandoned. Kyle wasn't going to work sound in Vegas; he wasn't even going to get a real burial. Faith dropped into a cross-legged heap on the floor, the full weight of past days crashing in on her. She squeezed her eyes shut as one thought hammered away in her brain: he never even knew my real name.

She must have slept, or lost consciousness. When her eyes jerked open she was aware that time had passed, but did not have any idea how much. She was stiff and the pain from her various injuries was intense now that her body had cooled down. She checked the knife, then crawled to the front window, where she raised her head slowly to look through the gap between the blind and the window. It was still full night and there was no police car on the street. She rested her weight on her heels and suddenly felt disgusting. She stank, she was caked with mud and dried blood, her face smeared with baloney grease and corn flake crumbs. She got to her feet slowly, painfully, and hobbled to the bathroom. She did not turn on the light as she ran a tub full of hot water, then stripped off her clothes and climbed in. She placed the knife on the edge of the tub and laid there until the water was tepid, then ran another tub, and when it cooled, rinsed herself off in a scalding shower. She wrapped herself in a towel from the cabinet and looked at the heap of filthy rags lying on the tile. No way was she putting any of those garments on again, assuming that anything was fit to wear. She skirted her ruined clothing and went into the bedroom. She felt empty as she looked through the shirts hanging in the closet and selected a Black Watch plaid flannel. The tails hung almost to her knees. The luminous numbers of Kyle's clock radio flickered in the gloom: Faith was surprised to realize that it was only a little past 1:00 AM. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she tumbled into bed, asleep before her head hit the mattress.

Faith opened her eyes and panic welled up for a brief moment before she remembered where she was and why. The panic was replaced by overwhelming sadness. She struggled to focus her bleary eyes on the clock's display. It was after 10 AM. She threw back the blanket and felt a sharp pain beneath her shoulder blade. She rolled over and saw the knife lying on the mattress. She moved it to one side, laid her head on the pillow, and passed out again.

This time, she didn't have to look at the clock when she swam out of the blackness; the slant of light in the bedroom told her it was late afternoon. It wasn't the light that had awakened her, however; it was her bladder's warning that it was about to pop. She grabbed the knife and stumbled into the bathroom to deal with that situation, although she wasn't sure how she would fend off any attack while sitting on the can. Still, it wouldn't be the strangest fight she'd ever been in. The long, shallow slash down the outside of her calf was mostly closed. She unbuttoned the oversized flannel shirt and slipped it off her shoulders to check her back in the mirror; she was greeted to the sight of a patchwork of abrasions. Her left shoulder sported a fading purple bruise. As she re-buttoned the shirt she noted mottled bruises and scrapes scattered around her ribs; the rocks in the dirt track had left their mark when she squeezed under the gate. She grabbed the knife from the counter and went into the living room, grabbing the phone as she walked past. She stopped and closed her eyes, then punched in a number.

"Hello."

"Cheyanne, don't say anything, don't react, don't let on that it's me. I-"

"Glynda?"

Faith swore as she thumped the handset against her thigh, then raised it again. "What did I just say?"

"There's nobody here but me."

"There's a cop car outside the house."

"No, there isn't. There was for a while last night. Wes Mitchell stopped by. Glynda, what-"

"Why was he there?"

"He wanted to know if we had seen you guys."

"What did you tell him?"

"That we hadn't since Sunday and we didn't know where you were. What's going on? You sound weird…er."

Faith ignored the question. "Is he there now?"

"What? No, he left. I told you, nobody's here but me. Where have you been? What's-"

"Cheyanne, listen to me." Faith white-knuckled the phone. "I need you to do something for me."

"Uhhhhhh, wait a minute, you've been gone for almost a week and now you call up and need my help? Is something-"

"Cheyanne." Faith's tone sharpened. "You know my bag? Next to the bed?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I need you to get it, I think all my stuff is in it, but anything of mine that's lying around, put in my bag and…" Faith rubbed her forehead, thinking.

"And what?"

"Gimme a minute!"

There was a long, charged silence, then Cheyanne asked, "Are you okay? I mean, are you in some kind of trouble? Is Kyle in trouble?"

The Slayer felt a hot tear slip from the corner of her eye and trickle down the side of her face. "Stop asking questions that I can't answer right now. I need you to take my bag and drive to the Gas'n'Grab, the one on 7th-"

"Where have you been?"

"Stop interrupting me! Gas up your car, buy a soda, whatever, but when you leave, pull up to the air pump. It's at the end of the building, right-"

"I know where it is."

"Okay. Act like you're checking your tires and leave my bag beside the building. Just be sure to push it back where it's dark, okay?"

"Glynda, I-"

"Will you do it?" Faith gritted her teeth. "Please." She heard the rustle of electrons along the line, then-

"Yeah, I will. When?"

Faith glanced at the window; the seam of light around the blinds had faded to a pearl gray. "Make sure it's completely dark, maybe forty-five minutes."

"Forty-five minutes, sure. What's going on?"

"I told you, I can't-"

"Don't give me 'can't' bullshit, Glynda. Something is going on... Wes was super upset when he was here, and now you're calling me out of the blue."

Faith twisted her neck in the dim room. "I bet he was."

"Yeah, he shouldn't play poker."

"Are you gonna help me?"

"This sounds like Spy vs. Spy. It is definitely not cool. I'll see you in forty-five minutes."

"No, you won't," Faith replied and hung up. She went back into the bedroom and began going through the closet. Any of Kyle's pants would swallow her, but she found a pair of old gym shorts and cranked the drawstring tight. The crotch hit her mid-thigh and the hem was somewhere below her knees. She retrieved her boots and slipped them on, then stowed the knife inside. She slipped out of the house through the back door and melted into the shadows. She was at the Gas'n'Grab well before the appointed time and hid behind the propane tank at the back of the store's property.

Cheyanne's beater rolled into the lot exactly forty-five minutes after the phone call ended. She parked nose-in in front of the store and went inside. She came back a few minutes later holding a large cup. She let the car roll forward to the end of the building, then got out and made a show of checking her tire pressure. She came around to the passenger side, away from the street, reached in through the open window, and pulled out the lumpy form of Faith's bag without bending down.

"Nice touch," the Slayer whispered.

Cheyanne took two small steps away from the car and tossed the bag. It landed with a muffled thump. Cheyanne looked at it for a heartbeat, then got back in the car and drove away. Faith waited. Waited. Waited. Then waited some more. Finally assured that the police were not lurking about, she slipped out from behind the propane tank and retrieved the bag.