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It is night. The outside of a large estate house with beautifully landscaped grounds is seen briefly. The sign across the bottom of the screen says, "Paris, France, 1870"

Cut to the inside of a sumptuously decorated room. Spike pulls on leggings and then he dons a waistcoat. Finally he puts on a powdered wig and then a three-cornered hat.

Spike: Druscilla, Druscilla, My Sweet Mirror, come tell me how I look.

Druscilla enters the room carrying Miss Edith.

Druscilla: Oh, Miss Edith finds you ever so handsome.

Spike: Well, Pet, Miss Edith has impeccable taste so I must be absolutely ravashing--just like you, only the male version. But, why aren't you dressed? Aren't you going to the party? Don't you want to wear a costume? You know how all Darla's descendants throw such scrumptious parties? And tonight's a big celebration. They've all pooled their resources and bought a Swiss bank. So, for this soiree, they are absolutely sparing no expenses. Must be nice.

Druscilla: I thought about going, but, instead, I'm going to grab a light snack and turn in.

Spike (exasperated): Dru, Love, now if that means you're going to grab another child, please don't. We can't have the authorities noseying around in our affairs again. Why must you always go after the children?

Druscilla: Well, Miss Edith and I like to play with the children--they're always so cheery--and then I guess I just get hungry.

Spike: But then someone who cares about those children gets mad and looks for a way to protect them, and that's when they notice you and that's when we have to move again.

Druscilla: I know.

Spike: Why don't you just find an older gentleman? Perhaps a vagrant. You can always do that thing, that thing you do with your eyes. You know, mesmerize them. You don't have to worry about a person's size so long as you do the eye thing first.

Druscilla: Oh, but I'm just never all that hungry.

Spike: Well, but it's better in the long run. It doesn't arouse as much suspicion. So, please, please, Dear Heart, don't take any more children, and especially don't MAKE any more vampire children. Those little vampires you make are beginning to scare people and all scary roads will eventually lead back to our doorstep. Will you be careful, love?

Druscilla (obediently): I will, sir.

Spike: I love you madly, you know, and I would gladly die for you.

Druscilla: No need for that, kind sir. (She curtsies.)

Spike (grabbing her and kissing her passionately): Oh, I love it when you curtsey. (He continues to kiss her and in the meantime manages to remove his wig and waistcoat.) Why don't we play French maid again? I don't mind being late for the party.

Druscilla: Certainly, kind sir. Can I make up your bed, m'lord?

Spike: Okay, but let me get into it first.

Druscilla: I'll go get the feather duster.

Cut to a later scene where Spike and Dru are in each other's arms in bed.

Druscilla: Oh, why do you want to go to that party?

Spike: I may be around a long time, honey pot. I wasn't raised like you with all the social graces. It gives me a chance to practice.

Druscilla: In my head all day I've been seeing you at this party and you're all ugly and twisted in some vile way. I wish you wouldn't go.

Spike: It'll be okay, Pet. Besides, the party-throwers are going to get involved in this bank and it may pay for us to be on their good side. Never know when we might need a banking favor--you know, a little laundered cash.

Cut to the party.

Men dressed in leggings and waistcoats and women in large gowns with petticoats and low-cut necklines fill the hall. Some dance.

Spike arrives. He gives his hat and coat to a servant and then he looks around wonderingly at the opulent surroundings. A stylishly well-dressed man approaches him, and they shake hands. The man is wearing a white wig with a bow in the back. His face is powdered and he has a beauty mark painted on his cheek.

Baron Franck: Welcome Master Bonham. We're glad you could make it, you're always such an amusing fellow. But where is your lovely companion?

Spike: Call me Billy, sir. And Dru? Oh, I knocked her up and she's home practicing breastfeeding. Actually, I had to pull myself away to come--she kept trying to practice on me.

Baron Franck (laughing heartily): Oh, Billy, you're so droll. I'll simply have to use that line on the Count.

Spike: Go right ahead, Franky. Can I call you Franky?

Baron Franck (chuckling): I should like that very much, Billy. But, you know, only between us boys. Perhaps I could, in return, call you Spike. Dear boy, everyone is still talking about the way you routed our enemies last week. I don't think they'll ever be the same; they certainly won't be attacking US again. Whatever possessed you to drive railroad spikes into their eyeball sockets?

Spike: Well, Franky, it just seemed like the right thing to do. (Franky chuckles) I just wanted them to think twice the next time they decide to try and unseat us here in Paris. Let them be content with plaguing the rest of France.

Baron Franck: Quite right. By the way, you look amazing tonight.

Spike: Well, my wig must have slipped because I looked simply devastating when I stepped out my door. Is it on straight?

Baron Franck (chuckling. He looks at Spike very, very closely, lingering.): Well, I dare say you could wear it at any jaunty angle and still be an extremely handsome man.

Spike (looking back unflinchingly): I dare say you are right, Franky. My human mum was a fine-looking woman and when I was alive, I always admired what I beheld in my mirror. Sad to say those days are past. But as long as you will serve as my very own handsome mirror and look upon me so brightly, I will know I'm still as attractive as ever.

Baron Franck (chuckling): Oh, take it from me, dear boy, you're quite the bewitching baguette. And, lucky boy, you'll alway be alluring to those of us who have a weakness for beauty. Too bad you have not considered favoring your male friends with your many charms.

Spike (chuckling): Now, there's a thought, Franky. Well, I'm going to get a drink and circulate. Can I get you something?

Baron Franck: Oh, oui, a champagne, s'il vous plait.

Spike: Okay. Be right back.

Baron Franck: Mind you, Billy, watch your talk; there ARE a few humans sprinkled in our midst tonight. They are bankers--you DO know my friends and I are starting a bank? Do hurry back, Billy, Spike. Oh, I almost forgot, speaking of mirrors as you just did, I'll get you an invitation to a special entertainment the Count is planning for later tonight. I think you will find his piece de resistance both interesting and intriguing.

Spike: What is it?

Baron Franck: And spoil the Count's surprise? Je vous en prie, do not force it out of me. Of course, if you want me to tell you right now, we can go upstairs and you can wrestle it out of me.

Spike: Franky. Franky. No sense letting you fall out of the good graces of the Count. We'll just let him have his little surprise.

Spike walks out of the frame. The camera picks him up walking past other people and he says "Ooooh" as a physical shudder of revulsion overtakes him.

Picture fades to black.

Cut to a scene outside a large door. Baron Franck is motioning frantically for Spike to join him. Spike approaches warily.

Baron Franck (whispering): It's time for this evening's special entertainment. I think you will thank me for making certain you were invited. You may never see anything like this again.

Spike: A magic mystery tour? My heart's all aflutter, Franky.

Baron Franck: Can I feel it?

Spike: Franky, hands to yourself.

Baron Franck (not really mad): Oh, very well. Pout, pout. But I'm certain you'll enjoy this, dear boy.

A servant opens the door and they enter. There are ten seats on either side of an aisle. In the front of the room is an ornate full-length mirror. It is angled away, so those entering cannot see themselves in it. There is another more utilitarian-looking mirror off to the side. Also up front, there is a woman dressed in a peasant dress sitting in a chair. On closer inspection Spike can see that the woman is bound and gagged and tied to the chair. He cannot see her face but he can see her struggling against her restraints.

The Baron leads Spike into the room and they sit two rows behind the woman. They look around. People suddenly begin appearing at the door and all the seats are quickly filled.

Baron Franck (whispering): I hope you noticed there were a few token humans at the party, but there'll be none in here. These men are all of our kind, mostly of Darla's making. A handsome bunch. She always HAS had good taste in men.

Spike (whispering): I'm descended from Darla, did you know?

Baron Franck (whispering): As am I.

A handsome young man moves to the front of the room. He wears a chestnut wig, gathered in the back with a red bow. He is well built and his clothes are exquisitely tailored. He clears his throat. The audience quiets.

Count de la Salle: Gentlemen, I believe I've met everyone here, but I am Count de la Salle. I have prepared a little demonstration for you this evening. Demonstration is a good word for it. But perhaps Demon-stration is an even better one. As you know, our kind has been around before humans walked the earth. And before humans entered the picture, our kind was composed of pure demon stock. If you had looked at us then, you would have seen only our demon beings. But since the humans began populating the earth and we began using them as vessels to disguise our demons and walk among them, you have not been able to glimpse the demon inside. In fact, in a mirror--a normal mirror--we do not even cast a reflection. True, on occasion we have all seen the faint shadow of our hearts, but this is an entirely unpredictable event. As a rule, in mirrors, we are invisible.

Count de la Salle (continuing): Which brings us to tonight's Demon-stration. The mirror you see before you, the ornate one over there with the carved wooden frame, is no ordinary mirror. Through an exhaustive search and after much expense I have acquired the famed Mirror of Merlin, named after the fabulous sorcerer of King Arthur's Camelot. It has many fabled mystical functions, which involve specific incantations, most of which have been lost to us, but this mirror has one inherent capability which we all will find fascinating. It reflects the image of the demon. So, what I am saying to you is that, tonight, gentlemen, you will, if you so desire, be able to witness for yourself the demon you carry inside you.

A buzz goes through the audience.

Baron Franck (whispering): I told you this would be good.

The Count clears his throat. The audience falls silent.

Count de la Salle: Through my beneficient, magnanimous generosity--let me say that again (several in the room laugh)--gentlemen, YOU, if you wish, can view your demon, tonight, but let me caution you: perhaps you may not wish to do so after you witness my initial demon-stration. This lady bound in the chair at the front of the room is a normal human, as far as we know--we obtained her from the street tonight--but we assume she is normal. When normal humans view a demon, their minds reject the reality of our existence and they immediately go stark raving mad. And, since the image of the demon haunts their minds and they cannot escape it, they remain insane for the rest of their lives and are no longer of any use to themselves or anyone else. Keep this in mind. By the way, if there's someone here who would like a snack later, this lady will be available. So, my point? Your demon is not a pretty sight. It may change your composure to see it. Rest assured, however, that we have never heard of any vampire suffering any long-term ill effects from viewing his own demon, but then our experience is limited. So, a word to the wise. If you don't want to participate, no one's holding a stake to your heart. And no one will call you a sissy if you refrain from my invitation, except for our friend Baron Franck, there, that is, but then we call him a sissy anyway. (He gets a laugh. Franky waves. Spike smiles.)

Counte de la Salle: So, are we ready? Imagine a drum roll if you will. Demon-stration. Oh, yes, keep in mind you'll be able to see the lady's reaction to MY demon in this other mirror. Drum roll.

The Count steps behind the woman. Her chair has some kind of wheels on the bottom and he pushes her to the left and leaves her facing the Mirror of Merlin while it still slants away from the general audience. Then he goes over and stands in front of it.

The audience does not catch the angle, but the woman clearly does. Seen in the plain mirror, the lady's face almost immediately distorts to an expression of abject horror. Her eyes become enormous and she tries to close them but her head is suddenly shaking so violently from side to side that an odd clicking noise begins to emanate from it. Foam spits out around the gag in her mouth and she begins coughing on her vomit, but then the coughing becomes something else, and to everyone's surprise she begins an uncontrollably hysterical laugh.

Counte de la Salle: Okay, that's the characteristically demented laugh we get from most humans. That laugh emanates from an overloaded, broken human brain. You can see it in her eyes; she will never have a sane thought with that brain again.

Counte de la Salle (returning to center stage, while the lady's tittering continues. Then when she starts cackling, she is quickly wheeled out a door at the other end of the room.): Okay, now, whoever wants to, and I stress the words "wants to," no one's forcing you, can file past the mirror and view your demon. But let's give the person ahead of you some space and some privacy. This is not the time for brinksmanship, people. Now, play by my rules or I'll take my mirror and go home. I'm giving you this unique opportunity; please respect it.

Baron Franck: Well, I may never get another chance. How about you, Spike?

Spike: I don't think so, Franky. Ignorance is bliss, as they say where I come from. As I told you before, the last time I looked at myself in a mirror, I liked what I saw. Why would I want to destroy that memory?

Baron Franck: Okay, but come with me. Perhaps I won't actually look and you can look for me and tell me how I appear. That way you will get to know what a demon looks like but you don't have to view your own.

Spike (wavering): I don't know, Franky.

Baron Franck: Pretty please, pretty boy.

Spike: Okay, before you get disgusting. But I'm not good at describing things so give me some time to come up with the words.

Baron Franck (clapping): Oh, joy.

They get in line. The line moves quickly, most vampires only glancing at the demon. The ones who spend any time at all in front of the mirror have a strained expression on their faces and they seem to first rock back and forth and then they squat down a few times, watching the effect of this in the mirror.

Finally it is Baron Franck's turn. He inches up in mincing movements gliding towards a spot in front of the mirror. Spike steps dutifully up behind him, watching his step so he can safely hang back and only see what he came there to see.

(The image of Baron Franck's demon is seen only briefly. But because we can stop video tape, it is described as looking somewhat like Acathla, who was also a demon. It is a hairy, slimy, wide, greyish creature with rolls of fat through its middle, a certain bowlegged appearance below the waist and with what looked like a globular genital sack, somewhat human-looking arms but with barbs along the upper part, and with a head that makes one dizzy to look at, as it contains a face that seemed constantly in motion. The eyes are piercing and darting. A serpent's tongue keeps flicking out between a mouth full of sharp teeth and fangs and which constantly leaks gobs of saliva. The nose is squat but it somehow seems to move like a pendulum from nostril to nostril. The ears are pointed and wide apart. On the top of the head are two very-wide-apart horns. Every inch of every part of the whole head, in fact, is constantly in a slimy wavy motion. Spike finally turns away, as this creature just seems so single-mindedly predatory that it can not be understood by any thinking person who would ask the question why does this exist. It is the personification of the chaos that dissembles the world and drains the resolve from people and destroys every thing hopeful and good.

Even Spike does not want to be in the same room with it anymore.

Spike: Okay, Franky, let's go. It isn't so bad. I'll tell you about it later, after we leave.

Baron Franck (excitedly): Not so bad. Not so bad. Then I've got to see.

Quickly he turns with the exaggerated gesture of a runway model. He looks at the mirror for a second, opens his mouth, screams, and his eyes roll to the ceiling as he begins to pass out.

Spike runs up and catches him.

Spike: It's all right, Franky. It can't hurt you. It IS you and you're fine. Well, fine as you ever were.

Baron Franck (delirious): Such strong arms.

Spike: Yes, think about my arms. Let's get out of here.

Spike resists looking at himself in the mirror. He moves Franky away, and then he tries to shift Franky's weight and move forward at the same time, but Franky's foot gets in his way, and then he has to spin to avoid tramping on it. As a result, Spike suddenly is turned to face the mirror again. This time, however, he freezes and, at first, he tries to avert his eyes but he just can't stop himself from slowly raising his head and looking up at himself. He gasps. The shock of what he sees destroys any equilibrium he had been trying to maintain and it cracks his protective shell. Shuddering, he almost drops Franky from his sense of horror and revulsion at seeing himself holding such a twisted, grotesques creature; but, on the other hand, the person holding this horrible creature in his muscled, longshoreman's arms is the young, handsome man he remembers as being named Billy Bonham, looking just the way he remembers seeing himself the last time he looked into a mirror. So, HE has no demon. Spike is confused. But he manages a smile.

Cut to a street outside later that night. Spike almost skips along the Parisian street. He moves with the joy of someone who has just had a great weight lifted from his shoulders.

Spike (singing): I'm not dreamin' that I've got no demon.

He playfully spins around a lamppost. As he skips further along the street, he suddenly spies something up ahead and he stops dead in his tracks. Looking around himself, he backtracks and moves behind a tree. He peers out again and sees a woman and a child walking in his direction. The woman is carrying a doll.

Cut to Druscilla and her young friend.

Druscilla: I should think, young Master Clemenceau, that it is well past your bedtime. Where are your parents?

Roget Clemenceau: I was going to stay over night at my friend Pierre's house, but then I found out that he had told my teacher a nasty lie about me, so I got mad and decided to leave.

Druscilla: Well, it's good that you teach him a lesson. We can't have people telling lies about us, can we?

Roget: No, madmoiselle. But can I ask you a question?

Druscilla: Certainly, young messieur.

Roget: Why are you carrying that doll?

Druscilla: Doll? Doll? Oh, you mean Miss Edith? Miss Edith has not always been a doll. She was once a real girl, but an evil witch cast a horrible spell on her. The doctors are, even as we speak, studying her unique case, to try to return her to her normal human self.

Roget: Really? Can I see her?

Druscilla: Well, perhaps, young messieur. Let me ask her for you. (pause) Well, she does says yes, but she is very shy. Perhaps if we went over there (indicating a field of plants) behind a bush.

The young boy nods his head eagerly. Druscilla leads him to a grassy area behind a large blooming bush where they are hidden from the main sidewalk.

Druscilla (stooping and holding the doll next to her face): Okay, young messieur, here is our Miss Edith. (The doll is very much a standard rag doll, not particularly attractive, but it is worn and tattered from use.) Can you see how much like a real girl she is? Look at her eyes in particular. See how much her eyes are like mine? (She points at her own eyes.)

The child looks from the doll's eyes to Druscilla's and suddenly he becomes transfixed looking at Druscilla.

Druscilla: That's my fine boy. Such a fine young man. Any mother would be proud of such a boy.

The boy is frozen. Druscilla moves around him and bends his head to the side exposing his neck.

Druscilla (suddenly vamp-browed): And now, for a little while at least, I am going to feel your mind and think your thoughts, and MY mind will be as untroubled and as innocent and trusting as yours, young messieur, and I will be transported away and released and the world will be bearable again for just that instant and I thank you.

She rears back to take her bite.

Suddenly a hand intersperses itself between her fangs and the boy's throat. Then the other hand grabs her by the arm and pulls her away.

Spike: No, Druscilla, we can't have any more search parties hunting us down. Let this one go. We'll go find a grown human no one will miss, and we'll feed together. You and me. Dining together.

Spike slaps the boys lightly across the face and the boy's head turns to the side. Spike touches the boy's chin and brings the boy's head back so that he is facing Spike and the boy blinks and looks up.

Spike: Run along home, son. I just heard your mother calling you. What's your name?

Roget: Roget.

Spike: That's absolutely right. She was yelling, "Come home, Roget."

The boy looks around and then up at Druscilla who has morphed back to her normal appearance. Then he shrugs and runs away.

Druscilla (petulantly to Spike): That was not nice.

Spike: Well, someone has to look out for you. You'll bring trouble down upon yourself and us and that will not be nice either.

Druscilla pouts. Spike looks at her and smiles.

Spike: Did anyone ever tell you you've got the most adorable pout?

Druscilla: Yes--you if I remember.

Spike: Well, how smart of me to notice. Now, how about that snack? Are you still hungry, pet?

Druscilla: Of course I am. You interrupted my supper.

Spike: For your own good, my goddess, I assure you. But, why the children, Dru? You're just going to bring their parents' wrath down upon us. Why all these children?

Druscilla: I need for my mind to touch their minds.

Spike: Well, anyway, princess, let's get you fed.

Cut to outside Buffy's house. The sign at the bottom of the screen says, "Sunnydale, Present Day."

Joyce: Buffy, get in the car. (She pauses, then hands over the keys.) Here, you drive.

Buffy gives her a puzzled look.

Buffy: You asked me to cut school today to assist you in a suicide? Was Kevorkian too busy?

Joyce: Honey, don't be ridiculous. You drive just fine for someone your age. You just have to remember that you're not in the car to listen to the radio and you're not in the car to do your makeup; you're there to considerately move over a ton of metal from point A to point B.

Buffy: Now you've gone and taken all the romance out of driving.

Joyce: Exactly. It's work. Get used to it. Only guys think it's fun and that's because they all of a sudden feel useful when we let them drive.

Buffy: Okay, now you've just taken all the romance out of guys.

Joyce: Sorry, I guess I'm just not feeling very romantic today.

Buffy (taking the keys and getting into the driver's seat): Oh, well, driving's driving and I don't do it enough. So, where are we going?

Joyce (getting in and belting up): I have a doctor's appointment.

Buffy: What's wrong?

Joyce: Nothing's wrong. I'm fine.

Buffy: Fine? Even I noticed you've been acting funny lately.

Joyce: Okay, I confess. I'm a Slayer.

Buffy frowns and starts the car. She adjusts her rear view mirror, looks both ways and pulls out into the street.

Joyce: And remember the wise words of your grandfather.

Buffy: I know, I know. (reciting) Be predictable. Always know where you're headed, and if you're going to make a right turn, be in the right lane with your right turn signal on.

Joyce: Second generational words of wisdom.

Buffy: Okay, help me so I can follow the wisdom of the ages, where are we going?

Joyce: Drive towards Highway 1, by the Aircraft Factory. Then head south. We've got 30 miles or so to go. You're doing fine.

Buffy (watching the road): Mom, you're being way too nice about my driving. So, if you're fine, why are you going to the doctor?

Joyce : I'm pregnant.

Buffy is coming to a stop and brakes too hard and they both lurch forward. Joyce says nothing about Buffy's driving. Buffy makes a right turn.

Buffy: Is it Giles's?

Joyce: Uh huh.

Buffy takes her eye off the road to talk to Joyce. Joyce says nothing.

Buffy: Fabulous. I'm not sure I would intentionally desire a little brother with that forehead, but I think maybe I could get used to it. And what genes! Slayer and Watcher!

Joyce: Forget it. I'm not keeping it.

Buffy steers violently, brakes, skids and maneuvers through the skid and another driver leans on his horn. Joyce says nothing.

Buffy: Oh?

Joyce: It was a mistake. It must have happened when we all went crazy from that chocolate candy.

Buffy: You mean you don't remember it?

Joyce: Not specifically. It wasn't the only time, you know?

As Buffy is driving she closes her eyes as though cringing from an eminent collision and jerks the wheel back to the right as the tires squeal. She peeks and nods, satisfied that her maneuver worked. Joyce doesn't seem to notice and says nothing.

Buffy: No, I'm sure I didn't want to know. And I had no idea. So, like, can I talk you out of this? Getting rid of little Giles, I mean?

Joyce: Not funny and I've already made MY decision.

Buffy: Without talking to Giles?

Joyce: It's not his worry.

Buffy: Huh? Maybe it would be his joy. Ever think of that?

Joyce (pause): We're not discussing this. I can't be tied down right now. I like my job at the gallery and the Owner likes me because I'm able to put in so much time. And I'm a single mom with you to support.

With someone laying on his horn behind her, Buffy pulls off the road and parks.

Buffy: Don't use me as an excuse. And you can always get another job; we'll make do. Don't you still get checks from Dad?

Joyce: Buffy, we're not discussing this. And yes, your father IS good about that, but his checks are not enough and you're soon paid for.

Buffy: Mom, honestly, maybe I just haven't lived long enough to discover how creepy men really are, but I haven't yet adopted the same Us Against Them attitude you cling to. Least of all with Giles. You have built up this sex wall in your mind and you even had ME convinced it existed, but if anyone has demolished that wall into a pile of rubble, it is Giles. I like the way he treats me. Don't you? Like the way he treats you?

Joyce: He's very nice. Very affectionate. But, you're right, Buffy, you just haven't lived long enough. Don't you see? You are Mr. Giles's job. Now, start the car and let's get going.

Buffy pulls the keys out of the ignition and hands them to Joyce.

Buffy: This Titanic is going to have to go down without me. Sorry, I know exactly where the iceberg is and I know how to avoid it. I'm not going to ram it for you.

Buffy gets out, slams the door, and begins walking back the way she came. She passes a large wooden Gurnsey cow that says Miller's Dairy on it. Joyce bites her lip and then slides over into the driver's seat. She starts the car and drives forward until she can turn around. She soon pulls up opposite Buffy.

Joyce (yelling): I'm going to do this anyway and later I may not feel good enough to drive home. How about helping me, girlfriend?

Buffy stops and folds her arms defiantly, but then her hands slip and her arms become a kind of self-hug as she thinks about it. She looks down and then up at her mom and then she looks sad and so she comes over to the car and gets into the back seat, saying nothing.

Joyce turns the car back around.

Cut to the waiting room of the Clinic. Buffy sits leafing through a National Geographic that says 1978 on the cover. On closer examimination she is turning the pages but she is looking straight ahead over the top of the magazine. Tears flow down her cheeks.

Across the way, at the admissions desk, a "nurse" is making a phone call.

Nurse (whispering): Yes, indeed. I have a message for Mr. Flutie. This is Nurse Prendergast of the Wilkenson Clinic. I just wanted to exchange a little more information for a little more cash. (pause) Yes, that's right. (pause) No, it's $500.00. (pause) Fine, okay, here's the information. Mrs. Joyce Summers of Sunnydale has just checked in for an abortion; she lists the father as a Mr. Rupert Giles. Goofy name, eh? (pause) Spell it? R-U-P-E-R-T.

Cut to an examination room.

Joyce is dressed in a typical hospital gown and white socks. Her face shows her concern. She is sitting on the edge of an examination table. The table features built-in stirrups which loom on either side of her. She begins to fidget and swing her legs and then she suddenly stops herself. A nurse comes in with a large hypodermic needle.

Nurse: Now, we'll just provide you with something to relax you.

The nurse approaches. Joyce looks very nervous.

Joyce: I thought I was supposed to get a pill. I don't handle needles well. I told the other nurse.

Nurse (looking confused): That's funny. There's nothing on the chart to that effect.

Joyce: Well, it's probably just an oversight. Please go check on it. A pill! You're not going to stick me with that.

The nurse shrugs and leaves. Joyce gets down off the table, and, holding the back of her gown closed, she goes out into the hallway.

A sign on another door says, "TO WAITING ROOM." She looks around her. No one else is in the corridor. She goes over to the waiting room door and pushes it open a crack, then wider, enough to see Buffy. She can only see Buffy from the rear. Buffy seems to be shrugging.

Joyce shrugs herself and, sighing, begins to let the door close, but then her eyes get big, and she pushes the door back open. She looks at the other three people in the waiting room; they seem to be trying to avoid looking over at Buffy, and then, when a noise escapes from Buffy, they look over concerned and then sadly avert their eyes again. Joyce watches as she realizes that Buffy is physically shuddering with wave after wave of silent, but uncontrollable sobs. An expression of pain overtakes Joyce and she steps back and allows the door to close.

Cut to a fancy notebook with a large, resplendent red rose on the cover and with delicate white lace around the edge. The phrase "Millicent's Meanderings" is stamped in gold along the spine and into the front cover.

A feminine hand opens the book and turns the pages and stops. It begins writing low on the page and, left handed, it obscures what it is currently writing, but the entries at the top of the page can be read.

Written in the notebook:

1. Monday, Appointment at Veronica's at 10:00 a.m. Don't let that new girl Celia at your hair again. She's too young and doesn't understand the concept of a blue rinse. If Veronica is sick again, insist that Dominick fill in. Otherwise, simply walk out.

2. Wednesday, Debbie's Birthday party at 4:00 p.m. She's going to be 14. Too old for toys; needs clothes, but, at that age, is too fussy. Safe bet per Beatrice: Get cash from teller machine. Need card: "From Grandma." Make an appearance.

3. Friday, Doctor Hammel at 2:00 p.m. Check up re-scheduled from last month. Remember to ask: Why am I, all of a sudden, retaining so much water?

Her hand finishes writing and pulls away revealing:

4. If Mr. Fox finally shows up this week, as he may, forget the Higgenbotham matter, and see if you can engage him to eliminate Buffy Summers. It's only a matter of time, now, before her usefulness as a Slayer will be severely diminished, and I believe we must make the pro-active decision to move on. Another will be called--let it happen. Time to review our inventory of Slayers once again.

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