( continues...) she is immediately startled out of her fantasies of being the hit of the spoiler community, or getting rich quick on eBay.
The torch is getting hot in her hand, and she doesn't really need it right now. She'd rather have both hands free. She spies a bucket under the desk. When she remembers she'll need it for the trip back out, she considers trying to prop the torch in it until she's done. The flame is starting to scorch her though, and she doesn't want to start a fire. Besides, the bucket well...the bucket isn't entirely empty. Flashing back to Justine's stay at Wesley's...um...closet, Cindy covers her mouth and nose, and winces, quickly extinguishing the torch, before she can think too long on it.
She rifles through the box of paper with both hands now. There must be five reams in there, and every page reads the same:
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Tim Minear never wrote for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Shuddering, she decides to finish what she came for, and get the heck out. She loads the start menu on the PC, and sees something called "Direct Access." Hoping against hope that this will serve as even better means of communicating with Minear's gray matter, than the laptop and WiFi, she clicks. Suddenly the cave-like atmosphere is flooded by a brilliant light, and she begins floating, floating, floating. "MINEAR! If I end up a %@$*&^# higher being, I'll slot your machine, I tell you what," she cries, and then passes into unconsciousness.
When she awakes, she is flat on her back, in a completely white room. "Wait. I know this place." Cindy is frightened. She's no slayer, and she's no vampire either, unless something happened while she was passed out. She's just a suburban housewife. She can't fight a jaguar. Cougar. Panther. Whatever.
She hears footsteps behind her, and they're not attached to any human, never mind Tim, unless someone really needs to trim his toenails. Their pace quickens, and she's pretty sure she's hearing the footfalls of at least four legs. It gets closer, and she shuts her eyes as tight as she can. She can hear it panting, and knows she's a goner. Why did she ever listen to Allyson? Sheeesh. And she thought the Bring Back the Bronze campaign was scary.
It's right behind her now, whatever it is. Closer. Closer. Ew. It's touching her. ACK! It's licking her. And something is beating a mile a minute against her arm. Oh, no! It feels like a tail. Cindy is horrified.
And yet? She is not devoured. Slowly, she opens her eyes, to find she's being licked to death by a...a...a beagle.
"Oh, as usual, dear." Cindy feels foolish. Allyson always said Tim was the pudding pop o' love. Why did she let herself get so frightened? She sits up, hugs the doggie, and says, "I need to get a message to Tim."
The beagle replies with a half dozen barks. "What's that girl? Timmy's posting at The Well? Noooooooooooooo!"
The dog growls.
"Timmy's been working too hard. He isn't feeling well?"
The dog resumes licking her, and Cindy is confident she's gotten the message straight.
"I have some homemade chicken soup, in a thermos in this diaper bag. I was going to drop it off at my son's school, afterwards. If I give it to you, to help get Timmy better, will you do me a favor?"
The dog barks twice. Cindy doesn't know if this means yes or no. Shoot. It's been too long since she's had a pet. She tries again, "Okay girl, bark once for no, and twice for yes, okay?"
The dog barks twice.
"Now we're cooking with gas. Okay, here's what I need from Tim. You need to get Timmy to (continued...)