She had been dreaming.

She was sure of that much. There were still images flashing through her mind. A rainstorm. A knife. Something about falling. She frowned and tried to hold on to the pieces. If she could catch them, then she could force them to make sense. But the dream faded too quickly, and she was blinking at a ceiling so white it hurt.

In fact, everything hurt. She ached. Her body felt like a lead weight. That was wrong. She heard machines beeping and hissing. The ceiling showed only blank tiles. She needed to move. There was somewhere she needed to be. She lifted her arm – God, it was heavy – and stared at it. Pale skin. An I.V. taped to her hand dripped clear fluid into a vein. She turned her head. An I.D. bracelet banded her other wrist. She squinted at it, tried to focus. Finally, the blurred letters cleared.

Faith Wilkins. No allergies. 5/20/99.

She tried to roll over onto her side. All her muscles protested. The I.V. pinched her skin. She bit her lip and pushed herself up with one hand, until she was sitting in the bed. The room was small and bare. One bed, surrounded by machines counting out her pulse, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation. She watched the little spikes travel across the screen, blip blip blip. And thought, I'm supposed to be somewhere.

She turned her head when she heard a rattle outside the door. Her whole body tensed. She wanted to run away. She was trapped, and that was bad, because someone had been chasing her.

Hadn't they?

In her dream?

The door opened. She edged across the bed, as far as she could from the light in the hallway. A woman rolled a cart into the room. She was dressed in white, short and round, with brown hair cut in a bob. She was reading a chart, making notes with her pen, and then she looked up. She jumped nearly a foot in the air, her hand going to her chest, the chart clattering to the floor, the pen rolling under the bed.

"Oh, my dear," she said. "How you startled me!" She smoothed her uniform and picked up the chart. "You're awake," she said. "Well, of course, you already know that! Oh, I'm sorry. My name is Nurse Owens."

She nodded at Nurse Owens. She glanced at the door and wondered if she could reach it before the nurse. Escape. She swallowed.

"Well, well, this is certainly a surprise," Nurse Owens said, bustling to the bed with her cart. She bent down and retrieved her pen. "I'm afraid I was already writing down that there had been no change! Just goes to show, you can't let your assumptions lead the way, not in nursing, anyway. Poor child. Well. I guess you're hungry. I'll have to get the doctor, of course, no sense starting you on solid food and then getting my knuckles rapped for my presumption. But then, I'm not the only one, am I?" Nurse Owens smiled and reached for her wrist.

She yanked her hand away. Her eyes darted to the doorway again.

"There, be easy, I just want to take your pulse. Can't trust the machines forever, can we?" Nurse Owens touched her hand, then clasped her wrist. Her hold felt firm and gentle at the same time. "Hmm, strong, good. I told them so, of course, but doctors are too high and mighty to listen to me." She made a note in the chart. "They said that with a coma of this magnitude, we need never hope for a full recovery! But you were different. Lots of REM activity. I pointed it out on the EEG – most coma patients, you get very little in the delta region, of course. You were more asleep than unconscious. But listen to me go on. How are you feeling?"

She shrugged. "I –" The croak that emerged surprised her, and she cleared her throat. Nurse Owens shook her head and went to the sink, getting her a small paper cup of water. She drank slowly, feeling her fingers tremble around the fragile cone of the cup. Finally, she spoke again. "I'm supposed to be somewhere," she said. Her voice still sounded husky, but far more natural. She licked her lips.

Nurse Owen patted her hand. "No, dear, I'm afraid not. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you've been in Sunnydale General Hospital – the long term care ward – for eight months."

"What happened?" She looked around again. The room was incredibly clean, even for a hospital. Everything smelled like bleach on top of vomit, like there were some smells that couldn't be washed away. It was all too clean. No one ever visited here. There were no flowers, no get well cards. Shouldn't your friends send you flowers in the hospital? Wasn't that the right thing to do? Maybe not after eight months. Maybe not if they thought you wouldn't wake up.

"Well, dear, I'm not sure. I only transferred here five months ago. Let me see..." Nurse Owens flipped back through the pages of the chart. She looked over the nurse's shoulder and saw line after line of the same quirky handwriting. Patient condition shows no change. No change. No change.

"It says here that you were in a motor vehicle accident. A pedestrian. Hit by a truck...Upper left quadrant wound, possibly impaled on debris...subdural haematoma. That's what's listed as the root cause of the coma." Nurse Owens peered at her. "What is the last thing that you remember?"

"I –" She hunched her shoulders. She twisted the bracelet on her wrist.

Faith Wilkins. No allergies. 5/20/99.

"I remember that – I have to be somewhere. I have to go." She turned her hips. Her legs were tangled in the covers. She pushed at them.

Nurse Owens caught her hands. "Here...Miss Wilkins...or may I call you Faith? Such a pretty name."

She tilted her head. Did she like one or the other? "Whatever."

"Faith," Nurse Owens decided. "There is no possible way I can allow you to leave the hospital." She shifted Faith's legs back onto the bed and freed the covers, then started tucking them in again, properly, with hospital corners. "First, you are still far too ill. We would want to see a substantial recovery before you were released. Second, you appear to be suffering from amnesia. Where would you go? And, finally, you are still a minor. We can contact your next-of-kin for you, but you can't leave all by yourself."

Faith let Nurse Owens raise the bed until she was sitting more comfortably. The room was hazy in front of her eyes. She leaned back against the pillows. If she fell back asleep, would she ever wake up again? "Who are they?" she asked.

"Who are who, dear?"

Faith forced her eyes to stay open. She was much warmer with the sheets tucked around her. Everything was warmer. She didn't hurt as much, now. "My next-of-kin," she said. "Who are you going to call?"

Nurse Owens opened the chart again. "Your guardian is Richard Wilkins...oh..."

"What?" Faith wriggled upright again. "What's wrong? What's 'oh'?"

"Your guardian – he was the Mayor of Sunnydale. He, ah, he died...just shortly after you were hurt. Faith, I'm so sorry."

Faith tightened her lips. Dead. Her guardian. And there was someone chasing her, with a knife – no. That was only a dream. She shook her head. Richard Wilkins. What had she called him? Dad? Mr. Wilkins? She moved her tongue around the names. Nothing felt familiar. Was she supposed to be sad now? She wondered if she would cry if she remembered him. She reached out for memories. There was only a thick fog, and the sound of a thunderstorm. Rain, falling. Blackness. Nothing.

"Oh, but there is someone else," Nurse Owens said. "In case of emergencies...here we are. Rupert Giles. All his information appears to be current." She rested her hand on Faith's shoulder. "You must be exhausted. Don't worry. You're going to be fine. I'll make the calls, and I'll have the doctor come and check on you, just to be sure. All right?"

Faith nodded. She tried to relax. She laid back on the bed. Rupert Giles. There was still nothing, no associations. It was kind of a strange name. She pulled harder, trying to find some crack in her mind where all her memories had disappeared.

"Shh, there." Nurse Owens soothed the hair off her forehead. "Don't try too hard to remember. Amnesia is common in coma patients, and it's usually temporary. You'll be yourself in no time. Everything will be fine."

Faith gave her a tentative smile. "Thank you," she said.

Nurse Owens smoothed the blankets one last time. "Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite." She turned off the light and wheeled her cart back into the hall.

Faith closed her eyes and listened to the rattle of the wheels for what felt like a long time. Good hearing, or else she was imagining that she could still hear it...the murmur of other people's voices...the shuffle of footsteps... The weight of the hospital settled on her chest like chains holding her down.

She fell asleep and dreamed of escaping into the rain.

They let her eat soup the next morning. They'd taken the I.V. out of her arm, and all the other tubes as well. The oxygen machine was pushed into a corner. An orderly wheeled a cartful of trays into her room. He extended the table arm over her lap and placed the bowl in front of her. She held the spoon easily. The shakes in her fingers were gone. The broth was thick and warm and filling, but tasteless. When the orderly returned, she asked him if Nurse Owens was there, but he shook his head. "Late shift," he said, and offered her a bedpan.

She grimaced. "No."

"You'll be able to walk soon enough, once you've had some physio. Then we won't pamper you," he said, grinning. "Don't worry, I won't watch. I'm a professional."

She cautiously returned his grin. Was that the kind of person she was? A kidder? "Thanks. Not now."

"Okay." He pointed at the call button. "You can try the nurse's station later, but they might be busy. Don't get too impatient."

She waited until he'd left, the door clicking behind him, and then she shoved the blankets aside and swung her feet over the side of the bed. She didn't feel weak. The pain was mostly gone, except when she stretched too far. She put her weight on her feet. It was fine. She walked to her bathroom easily. She thought it made sense that a person who hadn't moved from their bed in eight months ought to need physiotherapy. Didn't muscles atrophy after that long – a use it or lose it kind of thing?

But she felt fine. Strong, even. She came back into the room and tried a few warm-ups. Her body seemed to know what to do. She went through an entire routine of stretches without thinking about it. When she finished, her body felt like it was hers again. Nothing stiff or unnatural about it, not like when she'd woken up yesterday. The quicker thump of her heart was gratifying. Her breath came evenly. She made a fist and smiled at it. She flexed a bicep and felt it with her opposite hand. Nice. Her whole body felt good, toned and hard. She was too pale, but once she got out of the hospital, the sun would take care of that.

She hopped back on the bed. How long until that guy, Rupert Giles, came to see her? She listened to the sound of people passing back and forth in front of her door. If she concentrated, she could hear the drone of a television down at one end of the hall, and call bells ringing at the nurse's station at the other end. Wicked. She hadn't been imagining it. Her hearing really was that good.

And, if she knew her hearing was good, it meant she knew that other people didn't hear as well as she did. Was that like a memory? She closed her eyes and thought about it. She knew stuff...she knew lots of stuff. How to stretch enough so that her muscles felt the pull, but not so much that she hurt herself. She knew the orderly had spoken with an accent – Texas. Screwing up her eyes, she imagined a map of the country. Geography. She knew that.

But when she thought about anything to do with herself, there was nothing. She knew her name and that she had no allergies. She knew she'd been in a car accident on May 20, 1999. She counted the months. That meant it was February 2000, or close enough. She'd seen her chart and knew she'd missed a birthday while she was unconscious. She was seventeen now. She knew that the guy whose name she had was dead.

Rupert Giles. She knew nothing about him at all. Would she recognize him when he walked into the room? Would she suddenly remember everything as soon as she saw him?

Waiting was boring. She knew that, certainly. She sighed and kicked her legs. The hospital gown was ugly and faded. Had they left her wearing the same one for eight months? Her head itched and her hair was greasy. She picked up a hank of it and studied the thick, black strands. Well, as long as she was meeting this guy, she might as well look good, and maybe find something to do while she waited.

She headed for the shower, stripping off the gown as she walked. She grinned as she dropped it behind her on the floor. Obviously she didn't care too much about showing off her body. She stared down at herself with a slight smile. She ran her hands down her sides and then up to cup her breasts. Everything was in the right place, that was sure. And in working order, she thought, when her nipples stiffened. But there was something – she moved her right hand over her stomach, just under her ribs. There was a ridge of scarring there, puckered pink against her pale skin. She moved closer to the mirror and watched her fingers move over the bumps and roughness, then back onto smooth skin. It didn't hurt, but it felt weird. As if it should hurt – it should hurt forever. She frowned at the girl in the mirror. She was a stranger. She didn't know anything.

In her dream about the knife, she'd been stabbed. Right there. Same place. Who had done it? The person chasing her...

Impaled on debris in the accident, Nurse Owens had said. The dreams were part of the coma. They didn't mean anything.

She ran the water as hot as she could stand it. The hospital had tiny bars of soap and a shampoo dispenser on the wall, no conditioner. Still, it felt amazing to be clean, even better than stretching. The towels were too small. She dried herself on the top sheet of her bed. She made a face at the hospital gown, but was all she had. She put it back on. Without a brush, she couldn't do anything with her hair. She finger-combed it a bit, then tucked it behind her ears.

And again, she was left with nothing to do. Would stupid Rupert Giles never get here? Long lost – what? She tried to decide on a relationship. Relative? Friend? She hesitated, then threw in lover? for good measure. Well, anyway, when a long lost whoever wakes up from a coma, then you went to them first thing. This was getting annoying. She paced around the room once and thought again about just leaving. Running. But that was stupid. Like Nurse Owens said, where would she run to? She didn't remember where she was or where she was supposed to go.

Staying in the room for another five minutes, on the other hand, would drive her stir-crazy.

The sound of the TV down the hall decided her. She left the sheets thrown back on the bed and went to see what was on.

"Nurse, I must insist, this is urgent."

Faith glanced up for a moment as a middle-aged man in a too-big sweater and khakis hurried by. He chased after a nurse, not paying attention to much else. She turned back to the news she'd been watching. Now, at least, she knew where Sunnydale was, and also what kind of weather to expect for the next week.

Shockingly enough, they were predicting sun.

Another group of people rushed past. Faith looked up again hopefully. Sooner or later Rupert Giles had to show. That name was all she had to hold on to. She was doing her best, but so far nobody had come asking for her. She watched the group running down the hall. They were about her age. There was a guy with floppy brown hair and two girls, a brunette clinging to the guy's arm and a redhead in the world's ugliest skirt and blouse combination. Too young, she decided. She glared at the old man half-asleep in his wheelchair. He was drooling on the remote. She'd been waiting for him to nod off so that she could grab it and channel surf to something more interesting than reruns of the Golden Girls.

"The room is empty. I'm telling you, she's fled the country. That's what felons do, isn't it?"

"Maybe you're right, Xander. It could be for the best. At least then we wouldn't have to deal with her."

"Yes. Let the psychotic killer go murder foreigners. Meanwhile, Xander, I think we should go back to your basement, so that we can light those candles I bought and then have sex near them."

Faith gave a snort of laughter. She leaned her head back. The little group was standing near the nurse's station. The brunette girl was fawning all over the guy. He was shooting panicked looks at the redhead, and she was rolling her eyes. Faith snickered to herself. This was better than anything the TV had to offer.

"When did Buffy say she'd get here?" he asked.

"Right after her last class – psychology."

The guy – Xander – nodded and glanced over his shoulder. "Do you think she could be, you know – lurking? Waiting to pounce? 'Cause I gotta say, the pouncing did not go in my favor the last time. It was very 'Faster, pussycat, kill, kill!'"

Red shook her head. "Nah, she's too dumb to lurk. It'd be, like, ooh, I'm so cleavagey and slutty, I don't need a plan! I'm just gonna attack right now!"

Faith laughed again. These people certainly had a way of expressing themselves.

Who on earth could they be looking for? Another couple was approaching them, some big lumbering football type and behind him, a blonde girl. Faith leaned further back to get a better look at her. Something about her –

Maybe this was someone she recognized. It felt like that. Like she knew something about her. It was as if she had a word on the tip of her tongue and couldn't quite remember it. She frowned and shook her head. How did she know the blonde girl?

"Hey, Buffy," Xander said. "Are you bringing the whole Initiative with you, or just Riley? 'Cause I'm thinking even you might need back up on this one."

"She's gone?" Buffy asked. "It doesn't feel like it."

"You can sense her?" the football lunk asked. He looked down the hall, his eyes passing over Faith. She turned away so that it wouldn't be obvious that she was listening. "What does it feel like?"

"Yeah, Buff, spill. We want details," Xander said. His girlfriend whacked him. "What?" he asked. "It's a psychological graduate student thing, right, Riley? Research."

Before Xander could get hit again, the older man came back from the nurse's station. He held a medical chart under one arm. He took off his glasses and started cleaning them. "I'm afraid they don't know where she could have gone. She ate breakfast in her room, but she is certainly not there now. The nurse I spoke to was convinced she would be too weak to even get out of her bed unassisted."

Buffy glared at him. Faith had to strain to hear what she said. "She's a Slayer. Of course she's not too weak. She could be anywhere by now, Giles!"

Giles.

Faith blinked. Rupert Giles had arrived at last. And that meant they were looking for her.

Psychotic killer? Slayer?

Cleavagey and slutty?

The urge to run was coming back.

But Faith kept bumping into the same brick wall. Where would she run to? If these people knew her, then maybe they could help her remember things. Like the blonde girl, Buffy. She felt so familiar. It sort of tingled.

She took a deep breath. No matter what they thought of her, she had to do something. They'd find her eventually. She stood up and headed down the hall. She stared at Buffy. What was it about her? It was almost uncomfortable, how strong it was. Tingly, and, well, strangely good.

Buffy had her arms crossed and was frowning at the floor. She shifted, like she could feel it too. Then she looked up. Faith stopped. Buffy sure as hell didn't look welcoming.

"You!" she said. She pushed through her friends.

"Yeah," Faith said, wondering what to expect. They might know her, but it was clear they didn't like her. She really wanted to run. This was too much like her dreams. Fear, mixed up with that low-down tickle. She flinched, but she waited for Buffy to approach her. "Uh, hi," she said.

"You should have gotten out of Dodge while the getting was good," Buffy said.

Faith shrugged. The whole group surrounded her. Only Xander, Buffy, and the redhead girl looked angry, though. The other two younger ones only seemed curious. Rupert Giles was studying her carefully. "I didn't have anywhere to go," she told him. He was the easiest one to explain it to. Wasn't he her emergency contact?

"Did you think we were gonna go easy on you?" Red asked. "That we'd just forget everything you did?"

"Well," Faith said, trying a smile, "I did." God, what had she done? She fidgeted. Maybe this was why her body kept trying to run away. It knew more than she did.

"Ha!" Xander pointed at her dramatically. "You still show no remorse. A TV judge would so give you the smackdown for that."

"Xander." The older man, Giles, took his glasses off and glared. "Before all of you get carried away, I believe she's speaking literally." He settled his glasses on his nose again and lifted the chart. "According to the nurse who phoned me, a preliminary analysis suggests that Faith is suffering from complete retrograde amnesia."

"Isn't that convenient," Buffy said. She wasn't exactly sneering, but Faith could hear it in her voice. Why did the only familiar person in the world have to be such a bitch?

"Maybe we should phone the police," Red said. "Let them deal with her."

"Why?" Faith asked. She tried frantically to remember the car accident, or anything before she woke up yesterday. How did the police come into it? "Did the guy who ran me over die or something?"

"Ran over?" Buffy laughed, but she didn't sound amused. "What are you talking about?"

"The nurse told me that's how I got hurt." Faith lifted a hand to her stomach. She could feel the scar through the thin material of the hospital gown.

Buffy looked at the spot, then frowned and backed off. "Anyway, the police won't be able to handle her."

"Nor is there, in fact, an outstanding warrant for her arrest," Giles said. "Or else it would be listed in her medical file, and she would have been placed in a more secure ward. I believe the Mayor managed to bury all reports of her involvement."

"The mayor...you mean Richard Wilkins?" Faith asked. "He was my guardian." That only got her more glares. Shit, didn't they realize how scary it was to stand around listening to people discussing her criminal past when she didn't even know what she'd done? "You are Rupert Giles, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Then shouldn't you be taking care of me or something? The nurse said you were my 'in case of emergency' guy." Everyone was staring at her. Faith crossed her arms. It was getting cold in the hallway with just the stupid gown on. "Listen, I don't know you, any of you, and I don't know whatever you think I did. But I want to leave the hospital sometime, and they won't let me unless you say so, 'cause I'm a minor. Can't you just, like, get me out of here, then tell me what the hell is going on?"

Giles stuttered for a moment. He blinked at her, as if he'd just noticed that she was only wearing the hospital gown. That, and how pale she was. "Well, I suppose so," he said. "I'm sure we can get you discharged." He smiled. It wasn't reassuring.

"And what, pray tell, will we do with her after that?" Xander asked.

Faith glared at him. She didn't want him talking about her as if she wasn't standing right in front of him. He flinched as if she'd leapt at him with a knife. What was it with these people? Was there anything she could do to get a straight answer out of them?

"Normally, I would suggest we contact the Council for instructions," Giles answered, with a doubtful glance at Buffy. "But I think we're agreed that their actions would most likely be..." He hesitated, then made a chopping gesture. "...less than helpful."

"Yeah, and what if she's faking?" Red folded her arms and narrowed her eyes at Faith. "We get all trusting and sympathetic, and then she strikes."

Giles shifted a bit. He lifted a hand to rub the creases in his forehead. "I hardly believe..."

"We can test that," Buffy interrupted.

Faith turned back to her. She'd felt the Buffy's eyes on her throughout the conversation. It was worse than Red's anger, Giles' caution, Xander's fear, and all the curious stares. She'd tried to ignore it, but she still felt that maddening sense of familiarity. She hated it. Faith didn't want to know Buffy. There was something frightening about her. Fear stabbed her like a knife each time the blonde girl spoke.

Buffy prodded her backward a few steps. "Hit me."

Faith's mouth dropped open. That was the last thing she'd expected. "What?"

"Go on, give me your best shot." Buffy brushed away Riley's restraining hand and his warning mutter of "Buffy, maybe this isn't the best idea..."

"Here? In the hallway?" Faith picked at the gown. "In this?"

"Yeah, unless you're afraid." Buffy raised an eyebrow, but Faith could only stare at her in confusion. "Show me what you remember."

"I don't remember anything," Faith said. She realized it wasn't true the moment she spoke. Her brain refused to cooperate, but her body knew things. Stretching. Strength.

How to run away.

Faith looked at her hands, then back at Buffy. Hit her? Faith curled a fist. She felt a flash of memory. She had done this before. They had stood like this, eye to eye, fighting, or – competing, somehow –

And how dare they come to the hospital and accuse her? They insulted her and threatened her and refused to explain anything. What gave them the right to judge her? She'd woken up from a coma and they treated her like she was an inconvenience to be shoved back into a cage. Faith frowned and tightened her fist. She knew how to do it correctly. She adjusted her fingers. Anger boiled in her stomach. How dare they? How dare Buffy be so familiar, and scary, and cold, and not tell her why?

Hit her?

That's what they expected. They wanted Faith to attack. She would prove them right if she did. But Faith thought she remembered how to turn the tables. She knew how to keep an opponent off guard. No, that was wrong. She didn't know.

But her body did.

Faith lunged.

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