When we reached my parents' house, Ian carried Morgan upstairs to my old bedroom. I pulled back the covers and helped Ian lay her limp body in my childhood bed.

Most of the blood on her body was now dry and hardened. I ran downstairs to get a mixing bowl to use as a washbasin.

"What on earth is going on?" my mom called out.

"It's Morgan," I said as I hurried by the living room. "She's hurt. Ian's taking care of her."

I grabbed a washcloth and filled the mixing bowl with soap and warm water. I could tell my mom was totally confused about everything that was happening. She didn't ask any more questions.

While Ian kept watch of Morgan's pulse and the rate of her breathing, I did my best to clean the blood from her body. I washed her face, her tummy, then I began gingerly cleaning everywhere I found more dried blood.

"Oh Morgan," I whispered, but I had no hope that she was able to hear me.

Almost as soon as I'd begun cleaning the blood off her body, Morgan began to whimper. But she was obviously still deeply unconscious. It was almost like she was dreaming. The sound that came from her throat, though, was definitely not one of pain or fear.

Somehow, it was one of pleasure.

Still totally unconscious, she began pushing into my hand wherever I touched her. She was acting almost like a cat that really wants to be petted. But instead of purring, Morgan's whimpering started to grow into rhythmic moans.

"Morgan, sweetie," I whispered. "What are you doing? Stay still, sweetie. Please wake up. Wake up."

Ian touched my arm. Morgan was as cleaned up as she was going to be without putting her in a bath. I pulled the warm washcloth away. Right away her moaning subsided.

"What the hell is this?" Ian took Morgan's pulse once again. "Her heart's racing," he said. "She's also burning up." He gave me a confused, desperate stare. "I've never seen anything like this. . ."

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