image of woman sitting in armchair writing


Oz's moulting feather boa sheds purple wisps on battered upholstery. Wind rushes through rolled down windows, whipping her hair into a cascade of tangled strands. She hasn't slept in what seems like a decade, but in reality it's only a day.

The ancient aqua blue van thunders past a road-sign: 47 miles to go, and Cordelia heaves a ragged sigh.

Oz is cool, Zen-like, in silence. She reaches over, strokes the almost-blonde down on his hand where it rests on the gear-stick and wonders if she could invent some of that calm for herself.

Because she can't believe Buffy's dead.

The End