Into the woods — An old lady. The woods. The dark. Each benign in and of themselves, right? Put them together and suddenly things take an ominous turn. An old lady in the woods, in the dark — see the trouble ahead?

Other combinations that don't bode well: drinking, driving, the Alps; forks, toasters, toddlers; poor judgment, a passport, an ability to swallow a balloon the size of your fist.

Anyway. Did I mention the old lady in the woods? She's wearing a sensible camping jacket. As she traipses through the brush, she records some notes on a small tape recorder: "I have to move carefully… I don't want to frighten them."

Stopping behind a tree at the edge of a clearing, she peers out carefully and smiles. "My little darlings," she whispers joyously.

Flitting about a circle of rocks are five fairies, glowing brightly in the darkness. The old woman observes them with glee and awe, the Jane Goodall of fairies. She pulls a camera out of her bag and starts snapping pictures of them, her gnarled hands shaking with each click of the shutter. She takes pictures like my mother; crooked, off-center and all blurry. And those are the good shots. Two words, mom. Lens cap.

The camera's flash doesn't seem to disturb the fairies much. They zip about randomly, alighting on a rock here, hovering there. After a few moments of spying on the fairy party, granny turns to leave. As soon as she looks away, the fairies stop dancing and land, their lights becoming brighter and larger. The woman walks off, just missing her "little darlings" morphing into hunched, winged, sinewy demons. They all look like Iggy Pop.

Dreams — Back at Torchwood, Jack is sleeping bare-chested in what appears to be the bottom of a large, round pit in the floor. The significant phrase being "pit in the floor," not "bare-chested." Try to stay with me here.

I once knew a guy who slept in a walk-in closet. That was called "Too Many Kids, Not Enough House." I don't know what you'd call this, but it actually looks kind of cozy. We know so little about you, Jack.

At least now we have some answers to Gwen's burning questions. Yes, Jack lives at Torchwood. And yes, he sleeps, albeit in a hole in the floor. Tonight, Jack is having a bad dream.

In his dream, Jack is riding on a moving train car wearing an old style military uniform. Except for Jack, the train car is full of dead soldiers, their mouths filled with red rose petals. He awakens with a jolt.

Jack climbs out of his hole and takes one step. He's now in his office. We should all have such a good commute. There is a single red rose petal laying on his desk. Shudder.

As Jack ponders the significance of his dream and the appearance of the petal, Ianto wanders by in his de rigueur office suit and tie. Good God, what time is it? Does Ianto live there too? They look at each other in uncomfortable silence.

Things just haven't been the same since last week when Ianto told Jack that nothing would make him happier than to see Jack suffer and die, ya mo fo.

Avoiding the topic of emotional outbursts altogether, Jack asks Ianto if there's anything of interest to report. Ianto says all he sees are some odd weather patterns. Jack imperceptibly furrows his well-shaped metro-brow.

Want some candy, little girl? — It's afternoon the following day and kids are getting out of school. Little Jasmine has been forgotten – there's no one there to pick her up. A young teacher sees Jasmine standing alone but gets distracted by some other kids. The teacher abandons Jasmine, leaving her to walk home. Alone. Through the park. With a man in a car following her. You can forget about your tenure, missy.

Mr. Pedophile pulls his nice BMW up along side Jasmine, smiles and lies, "Your mum asked me to fetch you." Jasmine keeps walking. Overhead, something is rustling. Mr. Pedophile pulls his car forward and gets out. Towering over Jasmine, he tells her to get in the car.

He grabs her by the arm. Suddenly, a strong wind begins to blow. A violent gust throws Mr. P. off of Jasmine. A second gust slams his face into his Beemer. That's going to leave a mark. An otherworldly voice on the wind beckons, "Come away, human child. Come away." Jasmine stands there grinning but doesn't come away.