Over at the burning brownstone, a figure has appeared in the third floor's large corner window, clinging to a decorative pillar as it eases itself out onto the ledge. The imperiled gentleman hollers for the firemen to swing the ladder in his direction as Phoebe and Raige gaze dumbly at the "drama" unfolding far above their heads. Just then, a fireball billows out through the shattered window to the imperiled gent's left, sending him reeling backwards on the ledge as the shot shifts into slow-motion to capture the impending stuntwork in all of its glory. It's actually pretty cool, really -- the guy twists around and sails off the edge of the ledge, hurtling towards the fire escape's upraised auxiliary ladder. Hushed, unearthly whisperings exactly like those in all of the angel-heavy scenes in Wings Of Desire hit the soundtrack the moment before the imperiled gent's hands connect with a couple of the ladder's rungs, with the sudden addition of his weight quickly dragging the ladder itself down to the sidewalk. The formerly imperiled gent's feet slam onto the concrete, and he whips his head around, mouth agape, as he realizes what just happened. Phoebe and Raige are freaked. Kerr Smith furrows his brow, winces, and scratches his incredulous forehead as a couple of firemen race to the formerly imperiled gent's aid. "Oooo-kay," Raige eventually breathes. "How did you know that?" "Because that's the fourth person that's happened to in the last month," Kerr replies, and see what I was talking about with that whole "hunch vs. theory" stuff in the last paragraph? Huh? Shut up, Kerr Smith. "If the pattern holds," Kerr adds, paying me no mind, "he's about to die." "Pattern?" Raige snorts as Phoebe makes strangling noises of disbelief. "What pattern?" Kerr ignores them both to clench his radio in his manly right fist and bark, "All right, guys. Stay on the survivor. And keep recording!" Rose McGowan gets this hysterically stupid Cletus-on-Contin open-mouthed glaze across her face as the equally stupid Feebs cringes and cowers, no doubt terrified that the evil metal bird in the sky with its thin whirring wings, the choppy roar screaming from its beak, is going to sweep down and chew on them for dinner. Or maybe I'm being a little too hard on poor, overworked Phoebe and as a result am drastically selling her intelligence short.