Meanwhile, back at the warehouse, Phoebe's blowing the dust off a pair of boxing gloves while hagging something into her cell phone about the separate coffee and dinner dates she has scheduled for later that afternoon. Raige, wearing nothing more than her flimsy camisole top and fluttery black slacks, outdoors, in San Francisco, in January, is on the other end of the line, standing in the middle of a graffiti- and garbage-infested "Skid Row," waiting for her charge to appear. By the way, Raige has donned her favorite pair of oversized Jackie O sunglasses to appear less conspicuous, and yeah. They're working as well as they did the last time we saw them, which is to say not at all. Long story short, her new, teenaged (aw! No sex for Raige! I hope) charge is "at a crossroads," and Raige is "supposed to help him figure out how to make the right choice." When the charge starts getting roughed up by the "felon" -- Raige's word, not mine -- he'd been chatting to, Raige cuts the call short to intervene, much to Phoebe's outraged aggravation. Over in the alleyway with the charge and the felon, career criminal "Donnie" warns future Whitelighter "Speed" that, should the latter not "drive," he'll find himself in a world of pain, or something. They're not being terribly forthcoming with the relevant details, I must admit. Raige hustles over to chase Donnie away, and it works. Despite the fact that he looks like he could snap her scrawny white neck like a twig with one flick of his wrist and the fact that she's dressed like a moderately priced call-girl at the moment.