"There is a large section missing, but Enkidu and Gilgamesh fight, and after an epic battle, maybe three days and three nights, maybe longer, breaking walls and shattering doorways, Gilgamesh pins or throws Enkidu, but his respect for the wild man is so great that they become fast friends and comrades in adventure." Dr. Adjai spread her arms wide, her shining eyes looking up at the class from under her great mop of hair. "And that is how eternal stories are, ladies and gentlemen. Four thousand years ago, one of the earliest written stories we possess in the West and it is… a bromance." Laughter rippled through the room; as it died down, she continued. "Next class, we'll see how it becomes a buddy cop movie. Remember, your papers are due on Friday and, as you go on your way, be the hero of your own story."

Buffy entered the library. It was busier than it had been… Saturday? Less than sixty hours previous? A dozen preschool age kids under the eye of two women sat around the tables in the children's section, fascinated by the effect of crayons, glue, and glitter on the large sheets of paper in front of girls, high middle or low high school age to judge by their appearance, were perusing the YA shelves to her left. Buffy forged ahead, passing into the calmer waters of the tables by the magazine/newspaper racks.

"Well, hello again. I didn't expect to see you so soon."

Buffy blinked. "I needed to do some more research."

"Oh." The librarian nodded. "Well, do you need more works on mythology?"

Buffy's eyes widened. "Oh, no, not this time. I'm… I'm looking for, uh, demographic information about Sunnydale high schools. I thought that you might have yearbooks for all them."

The dark-haired woman nodded. "You mean SHS, St. Michael's, and Miss Porter's?"

"Yes, yeah." Buffy nodded. "The last… five years?"

"Well, we certainly have those. Come this way." The librarian walked to a doorway near the rear corner of the room. "This is our local history and reference room. You'll find the yearbooks for the last ten years on the far wall. If you should need earlier volumes, we do have them in storage for the last twenty-five years and then, before that, they're on microfilm."

"I think five will do it." Buffy kept her voice bright even as she sighed inwardly. "Oh, Will," she whispered as the librarian left her alone, "how did you do this all the time?" She pulled the 1994-95 Sunnydale Razorback from the shelf and sat down at the Formica-topped table. She looked through the volume; there was no senior named Patrick and no boy who looked anything like him. "Swing and a miss," she muttered and flipped back to the freshman class. She scanned the first set of pictures, flipped the page, and–

"Whoa." It was him, a fifteen-year-old him, but the bone structure was already there. Buffy ran her finger down the list of names. "Patrick Fisher." She nodded. "Real criminal mastermind, using your real name." She got up and returned the volume to the shelf, feeling lighter. She took out 95-96 and returned to the table. Sure enough, sophomore class, Patrick Fisher, looking more like her (and Emily's, Buffy was sure of it) assailant. She grabbed the 96-97 Razorback and flipped the page to the junior class.

There was no Patrick Fisher. Kenneth Fischer's photo sat next to Yvonne Fitch's, but, unlike the year before, no Patrick Fisher separated them. Buffy flipped the book closed and went to the shelf for the 97-98 volume. She opened the book and morbid curiosity got the better of her. She could not just open it to the senior portraits, no: like a masochist picking a scab or pushing a loose tooth with their tongue, she paused at the page labeled Class of 1999.

There was Cordelia on the first page, looking confident and… Cordelia-like. Xander looked like he'd been hit in the head a millisecond before the shutter opened, Oz's hair appeared to be somewhere between black and magenta, and Willow… Willow looked kind and sweet and shy, like the best best friend in the world. Buffy closed her eyes for a second, willed her hands to skip over the next page, but when she opened her eyes, her gaze fell on a person she barely recognized, a girl who thought she was worldly and knowledgeable about the pain and darkness of life, a girl who had so very much to learn. Buffy's vision clouded; she blinked and wiped at her eyes, then took a deep breath and turned the pages. There was no Patrick Fisher in the senior portraits.

"Making any headway?"

Buffy started in her chair, but avoided squeaking in surprise. The librarian stood in the doorway, an expectant smile on her face.

"Uh, yeah, some." Buffy bit her lip. "Is there any way to find out anything else about the graduating classes?"

"What sort of information?"

A thought flashed across Buffy's brain: What would Willow do? She shrugged. "More details about the class, who won awards, that kind of thing?" She tried on a woeful expression; it really was not difficult. "It's kind of a 'know-it-when-I-see-it' sitch."

The librarian considered this possibility. "Well, the newspaper prints a special supplement every year. That usually contains details such as the class top ten, the valedictorian and salutatorian, lists of students who have already committed to various colleges, that sort of thing. They do it for all three high schools. Would that help?"

"Yeah, I really think it would."

"Well, we keep newspapers going back to the twenties, so you should be able to find anything you need."

Buffy groaned. "Needle meet haystack."

"Oh, no." The librarian actually looked excited. "We used to store the papers on microfilm, but the library used some of the grant money the city received to digitize the collection."

"Meaning?" Buffy arched her eyebrows. "How does that help?"

"Oh, well, do you know what years you would be searching?"

Buffy's eyes narrowed in concentration. "1995 to… this spring? Last spring?" She shook her head. "May of this year."

"Great. Let me put these back…" The librarian re-shelved the yearbooks, then headed toward the exit, motioning with her hand for Buffy to follow. "Come with me." She walked efficiently to the back of the main room. There were two tables pushed together; four computers sat atop them: keyboard, mouse, and a CPU that supported a chunky gray monitor. "You're really fortunate," she said. "If you had needed to do this last year, you would have been up to your elbows in old newsprint, but, now, you can use the library database."

"Oh, lucky me."

"Have you ever done an online search before?"

Buffy closed her mouth tightly. "Not really. I had a friend… friends who did a lot of that stuff."

"It's much easier now." The librarian leaned forward conspiratorially. "Easier than using the card catalog, to be honest."

"Oh, that easy." Buffy mock-laughed. "I'll probably be done in no time."

"Probably. Let me show you how to use the database…"

Two hours later, Buffy was starving and cross-eyed. Everything she had seen so far had only confirmed what the yearbooks suggested: Patrick Fisher had vanished from Sunnydale after his sophomore year. She was about to close the search window and call it a frustrating day when her eyes fell on a small announcement near the bottom of the page: Fisher Family Celebrates Graduate. She noted the page number, then (clumsily) found it using the search tools.

In the upper left column of the page was a professional portrait of Patrick Fisher in a coat and tie. Buffy leaned forward to read the text underneath:

John and Marie Loomis Fisher would like to congratulate their son, Patrick Wayne, on his graduation from St. Enda's School in Warwick, CT...

Buffy checked the date: May 1998. She read the rest of the notice, then sat back in the chair. "Why did you leave?" she murmured. "And why are you back?" No ready answers were apparent, and she was hungry. She closed the window, shut down the computer, and gathered her things. There were only two patrons on the main floor, both older men perusing the Westerns aisle.

"Did you find anything?" the librarian asked. Buffy turned, her hip poised to push open the door.

"Yeah, I did, and thank you so much."

The librarian nodded. "Glad to be of help. Come see me anytime."

The bus door opened with the screech of rusty bearings and dry rubber as Casey rubbed her hands together; they were cold, but it seemed her hands were always cold, no matter the weather. Today, they were just a little extra-chilly. First meet nerves, probably. She tugged down the sleeves of her hoodie to cover her fingers; the sweats were maroon with 'Sunnydale X Country' silk-screened on the front. Casey stuffed her hands into the kangaroo pocket as she waited to get on. Gabby and Katherine were at the front of the line; they were always at the front of the line and they always caused a traffic jam. Trent Edwards was right behind them, all six-foot-six and one-hundred-sixty-five pounds of him. Watching Trent run was like watching a scarecrow attempt a getaway, but his stride length more than made up for his ungainly appearance and he was ranked in the top twenty in the state. Gabby and Katherine finally paused their chatterfest long enough to get on the bus, their braided heads bobbing up the steps, then Trent stepped up, his stride making him bob above the crowd like a character bursting out of the water in a shark attack movie. Casey shuffled forward, her gym bag banging against her leg.

"How tough is this meet?"

Casey twitched and snapped her head around. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?" Ophelia's big dark eyes were utterly innocent.

"Just… kinda appear, like, you're not there, and then you are. I mean, it's a little spooky."

"Oh." Ophelia thought for a moment. "Maybe you're so far inside your own head you don't notice things. Anyway, what's the meet like?"

Casey's shin bumped the bottom step; she winced and climbed up, Ophelia directly behind her. The bus was about a third full. Trent had already claimed his customary spot at the back, where he could stretch his legs across the aisle onto the opposing seat. Casey dropped into a seat about halfway back on the passenger side of the bus. Ophelia hesitated, then took the seat in front of Casey.

"So, the meet?" Ophelia rested her arm on the back of the seat and her chin on her arm.

"It's, uh, it's laid out on a golf course." Casey looked out the window and squinted. "There's one corner, you have to be careful, especially if it's crowded, I mean, there's a lot of loose gravel and sticks there, so it's easy to fall. The rest of it, uh-" She shrugged and turned back to face Ophelia "-the rest of it's pretty simple. There's one pretty big dip and climb about-" Casey performed some fast head calculations "-about half a mile in, then when you get to the top, there's a big right-hand turn and a pretty steady climb for about a hundred yards. Be careful there, you can get really winded."

Ophelia nodded. "Okay. Do you think it's better to run out front or wait?"

Casey took a deep breath to loosen her chest. "Out front. I don't like to be… hemmed in."

"Me too." Ophelia lifted her chin off her arm. "What about the other teams? Are they tough?"

"Los Robles is usually pretty good, at least their girls team is. Casa del Oro and Pineville have some good runners, I mean, they'll be the toughest to beat."

"But we can do it, right?"

"What?"

Ophelia radiated sincerity. "We can win the meet, right?"

"Uh, yeah, I mean, I don't know how we'll do individual-wise, but if, like, Gabby runs well and Calliope doesn't fall, we could finish top-three team, yeah."

"Okay." Ophelia leaned back, her head propped against the window. "Okay."

Matti blinked, her eyes burning from the sweat that ran into them. Her arms trembled as she finished the last rep and set the bar in the cradle. Her arms dropped, her hands resting on the floor, as she took three gulping breaths, then hauled herself upright. She grabbed her towel, dabbed at her eyes and face, then draped the towel loosely around her neck. The school was quiet; football and volleyball practice were over.

She was staring at the floor between her feet when the slight scrape of the opening door caught her attention. The intruder was a man with broad shoulders and a shaved head. He stopped when he saw Matti.

"Okay if I lift?" he asked.

She nodded as she stood up. "Sure. It's not my room."

He nodded and began stretching. Matti realized he was a half-a-head shorter than she was. He wore a gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off; three arrowheads pointing forward were tattooed on his right delt. He finished stretching, produced a leather lifting belt from his gym bag, and buckled it on. "Mind?" he asked.

Matti took two deep breaths. "No, I'm halfway through my first set."

"Would you mind spotting me? I'll return the favor." he asked, twisting his upper body.

Matti favored him with a raised eyebrow. "You want a girl to spot?"

He gave the bench press a long look, then turned back to her. "If you're lifting that, I'm not worried about you being my spot." He extended a hand. "David Sarikh."

She shook. "Matti Hollis."

David nodded. "You're the one who was involved in the incident last spring."

Matti nodded. "I am." The scar on her arm suddenly itched.

"Respect. You're the girls basketball coach." A statement again.

"I am. Sorry, but you are… ?"

"US history, freshmen. Assistant football coach, running backs and linebackers." His speech was clipped, every word almost bitten off at the end. He lifted two 25 lb. plates from the rack and slid them onto the bar, then straddled the bench and lay back. Matti stood at the head as he lifted the weight and did eight reps, smooth and slow, not breathing hard but popping a sweat that beaded his shaved head. He replaced the bar with Matti's assistance, then sat up. "What's your next set?"

"Legs." Matti pointed toward the machine.

"Mind if I follow you? We can spot each other."

Matti shrugged, palms up. "Sure. Okay if I go first?"

He shook his head exactly one time. "Not a problem."

"Did you find anything?"

Buffy's expression was midway between bleak and irritated. "Could I maybe take a deep breath before you give me the third degree?"

"I'm sorry." Joyce dropped the dish towel on the counter. "So, you didn't find anything?"

"That's the thing. I found a lot, but none of it makes any sense." Buffy dumped her backpack on the table.

Joyce leaned against the counter and folded her arms. "Tell me about while we wait for dinner to be ready."

Casey dug her right foot into the ground and tried to slow her racing pulse. A hum of ambient noise filled the air: the rustle of nylon, the quick breathing of nervous competitors, the whispers of whatever private motivational or tactical thoughts the runners murmured like a mantra. Casey stared straight ahead, visualizing the course. There was a straight, level stretch that began to rise and curve after crossing a stream. She wanted to be at the front of the pack by the time they hit the bridge.

The starter raised his arm, the gaggle of runners tensed, then the pistol fired and the competitors surged forward. Casey pushed off, taking a long stride ahead, then angled to her left to slip around another runner. Three strides and she was at the front of the scrum, just off the left shoulder of a girl wearing the green and yellow of the Los Robles Oaks.

She had told Ophelia the truth when she said she liked to run from the front, but she had not shared the complete why. Casey had never been fond of crowds, but since the events of last fall she felt like she was suffocating any time she was in the middle of a group of people. She had never been one to hang out at the Bronze, but now even the thought of being out among the dancers, people moving on all sides of her in close quarters, sent her into the cold sweats. The five minutes between classes gave her the wiggins; she tended to find an alcove or nook to hide in, then raced to class as the halls emptied. Last year, she could at least look at Cordelia Chase and see someone who had shared her experience and overcome it, but now Cordelia was gone, and the possibility of being in the pack of runners, of being hemmed in, felt like it might induce a full-blown panic attack.

She kept about ten feet behind the Los Robles runner, her stride even, the pace fast but sustainable. They were approaching the bridge when Casey felt someone coming up on the left. She kept her eyes ahead (looking around never paid any benefit) and was surprised when the new runner came into view.

It was Ophelia. She practically glided over the grass and zipped into the lead at a speed more suited to a 1500-meter runner. The girl from Los Robles twitched and increased her pace. Casey sped up and within a few strides realized that she could not maintain it, not if she wanted to have anything left at the end of the race. She dropped back to what she thought of as her top end, and soon Ophelia and the Los Robles runner were fifty feet ahead, framed against the blue sky and the green swell of the fairway as they approached the bridge. Casey could sense no one else; apparently the three of them were well ahead of the pack. Ophelia crossed the bridge and began to ascend, the girl from Los Robles about six feet behind her.

This was the tricky part of the course: a steady climb that could sap the legs, then the slippery corner, then the dip. Ophelia reached the top of the rise and disappeared from view as she made the turn. The track was dry and Casey negotiated the spray of gravel on the curve easily, but Ophelia and Los Robles were already at the bottom of the dip.

The three runners maintained their relationship throughout the first lap: Ophelia on an incredibly fast pace with Los Robles sticking ten feet behind her, and Casey another thirty-five feet back. They looped around to the right and turned onto the bridge straightaway, then up the rise, around the curve and into the dip.

Ophelia wobbled on the climb; it was small, but Casey noticed it. The younger girl's elbow swung out from her side, a break in the smooth back-and-forth piston action she had previously maintained. Ophelia's equilibrium returned as they made the right-hand turn, but as they began the long climb, her elbows fluttered again. The diversion point was up ahead; a volunteer had moved the orange traffic cones to redirect the runners toward the finish line. As they made the slight veer to the left, Ophelia's stride hitched. By the time they had straightened out, the hitch was consistent; if Ophelia had been a car, one of her tires would have been steadily losing air. Los Robles caught her in the middle of the last sweeping turn, and Casey passed her on the straightaway. There was roughly a quarter-mile to go and the girl from Los Robles was now twenty feet in front. Casey focused on keeping her breathing and stride consistent. She was so intent on her own form that she was ten feet behind Los Robles before she realized that the Oaks runner was losing hers. The other girl's arm swings were tight and her knee lift labored. The finish line was two hundred yards away; Casey could see the flags and the timing tent. She locked onto that image. Whatever was happening with Los Robles was not her concern; she had to run and finish her race. Keep the elbows in. Don't overstride. Don't try to run fast, run smooth. Her vision narrowed to a pinpoint fixed on the finish line. Los Robles was a green-and-yellow blob in the corner…

And with thirty yards to go, the blob was gone. Casey was aware that she had passed the other girl, but she pressed it down to the bottom of her consciousness. She could hear her name being shouted by her teammates who had already run their races, could see their shapes from the corner of her eye as she pulled up whatever energy she had left and sprinted toward the finish line, the finish line was a pane of glass in front of her, waiting to be shattered…

And she was through. Her lungs burned; no breath seemed deep enough. Coach Hyde's lips were moving. Casey couldn't hear what she was saying, but the coach's waving arm always pointed toward the water station. Casey shambled toward the volunteers with the water bottles, her breath coming in huge gulps as her heart rate began to slow down. Her hearing returned as she cracked the seal and turned back toward the finish line. Two runners from Pineville crossed as she watched, then one from St. Isidore's, then Ophelia.

Ophelia stopped abruptly and bent over, elbows on knees. Coach Hyde grabbed her by the shoulder and steered her toward the water station. Casey did the head math: Ophelia had finished sixth. One of the volunteer's handed Ophelia a bottle; the younger girl opened it and took a long drink. Some of it went down the wrong pipe; Ophelia sputtered and coughed, then took a deep breath. Her cheeks were flushed a deep red.

"Casey, Ophelia." Coach Hyde waved toward them. "Medals are that way." From the corner of her eye, Casey saw Gabby finish the race and go to one knee. The head timer distributed the top-ten medals. Casey nodded as she took hers, then held it in her hand, then watched the rest of the girls receive their medals. A photographer from the local paper came forward; the girls squeezed a little closer together and tried to smile as pictures were taken. As the photographer left, the runner from Los Robles turned to Casey.

"Good race. See you at Pineville."

"Yeah." Casey nodded.

"So, his family sends him to what sounds like a really ritzy school in Connecticut, which, why? Why after his sophomore year?" Buffy chewed and considered the weight of her own question. "I mean-" She swallowed "-send him east for all four years, okay, that's a thing, but why after tenth grade?"

"Maybe something happened that forced his parents to do it." Joyce dabbed at her lips with a napkin.

Buffy stared at her mother. "Wow, low blow, mom."

Joyce frowned, then looked stricken. "Oh, honey, I didn't… I wasn't-"

"No, it's something I hadn't thought of." Buffy looked down at her lap, then her head came up quickly. "Maybe I should have. I mean, we had to leave LA because of something I did-"

"Honey, I didn't know-"

"No, no, mom, listen. I'm wondering why his parents sent him away, but maybe they had to. Maybe he did something and that was their only option."

"Buffy, you're letting your imagination-"

"Mom, don't make me play the 'vampires are real' card." Buffy arched an eyebrow.

"I think there's a very real difference." Joyce used great care in placing her napkin next to her plate.

"Maybe," Buffy said, "but maybe not as much as you think."

Joyce nodded as she digested that tidbit of wisdom. "If you're really stuck, you could always-"

"No, mom." Buffy pushed back in her chair. "I can't talk to her."

The bus swayed as it rolled down the highway while the Sunnydale cross country team rode the wave. The general feeling inside the vehicle was positive: the boys team had finished first, led by Trent's first-place finish backed with fourth, fifth, and ninth place efforts by Jeremy Willhite, Brody Saulnier, and Damien Linton. The girls had done well; Casey's first combined with Ophelia's sixth and Gabby's eleventh place had been good for third, behind Pineville and Royal Mountain. Los Robles had finished fourth; Casey felt irrationally good about that as she reclined, her back against the metal sides of the bus and her legs resting on the seat. Coach Hyde worked the aisle, congratulating, encouraging, critiquing. She stopped at Casey's spot; the coach's white visor fairly glowing against her dark tan. "You ran a good race, didn't panic, kept your form and composure. Great start to the season, Casey." Casey mumbled her thanks, eyes dropping to her folded hands. Coach Hyde patted her on the shoulder and sidestepped to Ophelia.

"There's a lot to like about your race, but a lot to learn, too." The coach crouched in the aisle, her hand grabbing the back of the seat to counteract the bus's sway. "You know that you set too fast a pace and ran yourself out. Still, a top ten finish is nothing to be ashamed of. We'll start working on your pacing tomorrow. That, or your endurance." She winked and stood, walking stiffly toward her next acolytes. Casey heard Ophelia breathe out a heavy sigh and turned her head toward the younger girl.

"Don't be mad at yourself. I mean, you did run a good race and the first meet can make anybody nervous. You'll do better next time, really."

Ophelia held up her medal. It caught the light of the setting sun and refracted a rosy glow over her face. "Coach is right… I did run myself out, and if I hadn't, if I could have come in third or fourth, we probably could have taken team second."

"Well, yeah, but… if you didn't set that pace, I probably couldn't have won." Casey moved her feet to the floor and turned to a more forward-facing position. "I mean, I don't think I could have beaten Los Robles, but she tried to keep up with you, and she got tired too."

"You ran a smarter race." Ophelia turned toward Casey, her cheek catching the golden light.

"Not really." Casey looked out the window. "It wasn't smart, it was… when Los Robles sped up, I did too, but I knew I couldn't keep it up, so I settled back. It wasn't a strategy so much as… I guess I wasn't ready to push that hard. I thought I was probably gonna finish third until…"

"Until my wheels came off." Ophelia's face squinched up and she bit her lip.

"Yeah, but… this sounds bad, but when that… it happened, I knew I had some left in my tank, and that I'd catch you, but I didn't think I'd catch Los Robles even then. I just… I just kept running and..." Casey grimaced and lifted her shoulders apologetically. "I'm sorry."

"Nah. It's okay. I had the same problem last year." Ophelia shrugged, the motion causing the rose-gold light to dance over her smooth cheek.

"You did?"

"Yeah." Ophelia leaned her head back against the window and stared up toward the top of the bus, but her eyes were somewhere way beyond that. "I start running and it feels so good, like I'm free, and sometimes, it feels like, like… if I could just run a little bit faster, I could… take off and fly away." Her gaze drew in and she turned toward Casey, a bittersweet smile on her lips as the last wafer of the sun slid behind the hills and gloom enveloped the bus's interior.