Dawn walked slowly through the woods on the edge of town. She needed a walk to clear her head and that's why she hadn't accepted a lift home from Melinda's mother. Her mind was in a minor turmoil and the cool night air was really helping to clear it up.

Maybe that's why she didn't hear it at first, the crunching of grass underfoot happening near her. Maybe that's why she didn't hear it until it was too late.

She meandered through the woods, straying away from the safety of the clearing. The night sky was clear and lit with a million billion shining stars. She looked up at it and sighed, feeling her insignificance against the enormity of the night sky.

The trees rustled behind her as a slight wind picked up. Maybe that's what masked the sound of it coming.

She continued on, weaving a path between the darkened trees. In the breeze her skin felt cold and she wrapped her arms around her body. The skin on her arms raised into tiny little bumps, she began to shiver and the tips of her fingers turned a feint blue. She knew she should have worn a jumper but she had never been that sensible with clothing -- a trait she had picked up from sister dearest. Soon she was shivering violently, cursing that she had chosen to walk when she could have been warm inside a car.

She soon discovered she was hopelessly lost.

Day Two

The woods are strangely quiet. Normally they are alive with sounds, birds chirping, leaves rustling. You know something is wrong, that something here has been disturbed. That you're not going to like what you find.

You run through the woods, your feet silent on the springy grass. With quick eyes you scan through your surroundings. This is not necessary. You find it in a clearing.

At first it looks like a dead animal, then you see it has human shape. It has long hair, dark and knotted. It is splashed with blood, dark and crusted. It is curled in a ball. It doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, and you wonder if this is a trap of some sort.

You run close to it from behind. Its wrists are bound with razor wire. The hands look soft and feminine, nails painted pink. There are nasty cuts on the skin underneath the razor wire, angry and bleeding. You delicately untangle the razor wire and unbind her wrists. You hear her gasp.

When you move around and look at her face you feel sick. Her eye is bruised, the skin black and purple. There is a multitude of cuts on her face, including a nasty slash across her cheek. But the thing that really gets you is whose face you recognise under the mess.

You turn your head to the side and vomit, trying not to get any in Dawn's hair.

You wipe your face with the back of one hand and fumble for your cell phone with the other. With trembling fingers you dial the number. You're not sure how well you stutter through the phone call but you think you get the message across.

You hang up and sit next to your sister. You hear the ambulance long before it reaches you.

The doctor's face is kind and her voice is soft.

"Dawn has some minor internal injuries but mostly just bruising and cuts. Some of the cuts required stitches but most are shallow. She has some bad bruising in her left shoulder and left hip. The main worry is her emotional well being. Dawn has been through quite an ordeal and she just needs to rest for a while. We want to keep her overnight for observation. Your sister is quite resilient, Miss Summers."

"When can I visit her?" you ask.

"You can visit her now if you like. She's currently sleeping and I wouldn't suggest trying to wake her."

Dawn is pale amongst the white sheets, pale like death. Her eyes look like they've sunk into her face and they are dark. There is no light in her expression.

You wonder if she even notices you're in the room.

"Dawn," you say, softly, patiently, but she doesn't hear. Or maybe she just doesn't register the words.

You stroke the hair back from her face, careful to avoid the cuts and bruises that darken her skin.

"Dawn, I know you can hear me. Everything's going to be all right. We'll get through this and you'll be fine," gentle voice, confident as if you believe it.

Dawn doesn't move but to breathe and the only noise in the room is the hum of machines.

Willow hands you a cup of coffee. It is warm in your hands and bitter on your tongue.

"Thank you," you say, and your voice is dull.

She sits in the plastic chair next to yours, sipping her coffee.

"How is she?" Willow asks.

"She's alive," you reply.

The house is too quiet without her, empty without her presence. You slump on the couch and sigh.

The silence weighs down on you and you almost feel like you can't breathe.

You move to your room and grab some weapons. The need for patrol is almost all consuming.

Day Three

You're very careful with Dawn when you bring her home. You put your arm around her waist to bring her inside and she leans her head against yours. It's difficult getting your keys out with one hand while you hold her, but soon you manage, opening the door wide.

You bring her inside and put her on the couch. She slumps back against it.

You quickly close the door and return to lift up her tired body. She is heavy but still and you are strong, making the trek up stairs less of a struggle than it would otherwise have been.

Once in her room, you deposit her on the bed and she rolls to her side. You pull her shoes and socks off and bring the covers over her body.

You kiss her forehead and push her hair off her face.

"Good night," you say softly, and exit the room.

Day Four

Dawn's eyes look empty in the dark room. She lies on her sheets, curled into a ball. Occasionally she shivers and the odd whimper escapes from her body.

You don't want to know what she's dreaming about, if she's remembering. You hope she isn't. You don't want to imagine what she might be remembering. That's one thing you've learned from all these years of blood and gore - that sometimes you have to pretend you don't see things.

You walk back to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. The moonlight through the windows turns everything grey.

Day Five

She sometimes screams in the night, loud and harsh. She sounds like a pack animal, like something vile. Her screams echo through the house. You can't get away from the sounds, much as you would like to.

You run to her room, sitting on the edge of her bed, next to her twisting body. She's twisted herself into her sheets; limbs flopping like a puppet. Her bony elbows and shoulders impact with your body when you try to grab her. Her screams won't stop.

You get a hold of her body, finally. She won't stop twisting, trying to get away from you, but you're strong enough to hold her in place. You draw her back against your body, one arm slung around her neck, the other across her waist.

"Ssh, ssh, Dawn, it's okay. I'm here," you soothe, burying your words in her hair.

Her movements slow and soften and you know she's awake. Her body still shakes, but with tears now. They slide down her face, collecting on her twitching lower lip.

"Ssh, Dawn, it's all right," you say.

Turning your neck at an awkward angle, you drop a kiss on her forehead. When you loosen you arms around her she turns into you, burrowing her head into your chest. Her arms wind around your neck and she sobs against your skin.

"Buffy," she cries, and it's her first word since you got her back.

Day Six

Dawn in the kitchen is like a ray of sunshine. Her smile is subtle but you don't think you've ever noticed its brilliance before. She's eating a piece of toast all on her own and you feel so proud. You wish you didn't have to.

You caress her hair. You love the way it feels on your fingers - silky and strong - always have. It's grounding to touch her, to feel her hair.

You sit down and eat your breakfast.

Willow moves into the living room and hands Dawn a warm drink.

"Thank you," Dawn says softly.

Willow's face lights up.

"Dawn! You're speaking again!" Willow exclaims.

Dawn nods silently.

Willow makes a soft sound and reaches out to push Dawn's hear behind her ear. It feels different from when Buffy does it, like Willow's fingers crackle with electricity.

Day Seven

Dawn screams when the window shatters. The demon comes into the room, with a flash of colours and heads towards her. She runs into the kitchen but there are demons there too. Xander is trying to hold them off.

Dawn runs up the stairs into her room. A demon follows on her heels and she ducks as it springs towards her. It hits the floor and rolls towards the bathroom. It gets to its feet within seconds and comes at her again. It's fist impacts with her shoulder, knocking Dawn to the floor like a rag doll. Sprawled on the floor, Dawn sees it preparing to attack again, when it's neck snaps loudly. It falls to the floor, dead, revealing Buffy, illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window.

Another demon comes up behind Buffy and she whirls around to fight it. Buffy is in her element, strong and fast, and Dawn is paralysed in awe.

Buffy kicks the demon into the wall. Another of its companions enters the room, as it begins to stand and advance. Buffy takes them both on with skill, spinning and hitting, ducking and kicking.

Dawn raises herself to her feet. She can hear the hard sounds of flesh hitting flesh, of bodies knocking into walls, of grunts of exertion. In the background she can hear a scream. It is loud and insistent, like a dying animal.

One of the demons moves away from Buffy and heads for Dawn. Buffy catches it, struggling against it. The other demon comes from behind her, pushing her towards the window. The momentum propels both Buffy and the other demon out the window.

"Buffy!" Dawn yells.

The remaining demon grabs Dawn's arm and drags her over towards the window. It twists her in its grasp, bringing its arm around her neck. Its hold tightens around her neck, and she feels like she's breathing in broken glass.

Through the window she can see Buffy's body on the lawn. Buffy is motionless, her body twisted and wrong looking, her arms at odd angles. Buffy's eyes are still open though, and when they twitch Dawn sees that she is still alive.

Dawn feels like her eyes are going to pop out of her head.

All the glass in the room shatters.

"Let her go," a strong voice commands.

The demons' arms unwind from around her neck and Dawn slides down against the wall. Willow is veiny, black-eyed and furious. With a flick of her hand the demon screams and explodes, splattering all over the bed.

"Come with me," Willow commands, holding out her hand.

Dawn grabs her hand and follows her down the stairs.

As they pass the kitchen Dawn realises the screaming she'd heard was Xander's. She averts her eyes from his lifeless form as they pass through the door.

Willow leads her to Xander's car. They get in and Willow pulls out before Dawn finishes putting her seatbelt on. As they drive down the street, the house explodes behind them.

Day Eight

They drive through the night and into the morning. Dawn sleeps upright in her seat and when she wakes her neck hurts and the sunlight stabs her eyes. Rolling her head to the side, she sees Willow, hair red and eyes blue again.

"Hey," Dawn says.

"Hey," Willow replies with a smile.

"Are they following us?" Dawn asks.

"Probably," Willow replies.

Dawn straightens in her seat, rolling her head a little to get the kinks out of her neck.

"Buffy's still alive," she says.

"How do you know?" Willow asks.

"I can feel it. I can feel her dying."

In the late afternoon they spot a service station. Willow pulls in to get gas and food.

Dawn is hungry and sore. When she exits the car she stretches slowly, enjoying the burn of blood returning to unused muscles. She makes her way to the bathroom, surprised no one stops to look at the battered girl.

She wonders how it must look, her coming here with Willow. To a stranger they might look like friends, or even lovers. The thought is oddly intriguing.

The mirror is old. It's cracked in places, and warped. The dim light wobbles through it.

Dawn looks at her face in the dingy mirror. Her mascara is streaked around her eyes, dark lines and blobs, like an inkblot test, a splash of paint. Her eyes seem reddened and unfocused, softened like a watercolour. There are handprints on her throat.

The lines of mascara seem grey against her pale, cold skin. The lines on her throat are purple and green.

She tries to scream but it sticks in her throat.

There's a cut on her upper lip. Her tongue flicks out, traces it. It tastes warm, coppery like blood but diluted with tears. Every time her tongue traces over the cut she feels sharp, little splinters of pain. Something in her head is talking about Buffy. She almost feels like this is Buffy's face.

She breathes slowly and the air tastes like concrete.

She brings her wrists together, looks at them under the bathroom light. She's thin and bony and the scars are dark. She can still feel the rough scratching from when her hands were bound with razorwire. She can still see the way the blood welled from the sharp slice of metal.

Dawn stares, wide-eyed and quiet, at her healing, scabby wrists and sees Buffy's broken body, and hears Xander's dying screams.

Dawn exits the bathroom. The world outside is dusty and windy. People hurry to their cars.

The sun is setting, the sky splashed with brilliant red and dark orange. It casts pink light over the service station. Tinted pink, Willow is no less scary or beautiful than usual. She notices Dawn and smiles a little.

Dawn makes her way over to the car, gets in on the passenger side. As she buckles herself in she hears the wind pick up. She looks up to Willow, returns her smile.

"Ready to go, baby girl?" Willow asks.

Dawn merely nods.