"Come on…" mutters Buffy, listening to the ring tone while staring at the flaming backdrop behind the BBC talking head.

"This is Angel—"

"Angel! Thank God, I—"

"...Hart, Los Angeles branch. I can't..."

Plummeting fear replaces the momentary elation.

"Angel? Are you...? The news says..." She swallows against the rising bile, refusing to believe. "If you're screening my calls, so help me I'll..."

"...I'll return your call as soon as I can."

She doesn't leave a message. She can't; it filled months ago. But his voice is all she has left. So she disconnects and calls again.