Sookie's still screaming, the alarm in Dawn's apartment is still going off. She calls for help, but there's no help coming. She approaches, slowly, and looks down at Dawn. "Sweetie, what did you get yourself into?" The question of the day. They'll keep asking, and every time they ask they'll really be asking Sookie, "What are you getting yourself into?" Nobody louder than Sookie herself. She pulls the sheet over Dawn's throat, on the bite marks there. Marked, as in branded; marked, as in special. Like a freckle or a mole.
Jason enters behind her, dropping a vase full of flowers in shock. Sookie runs to her brother, into his arms, sobbing. "It's okay," he says, staring at Dawn's face; Sookie slaps him across the chest: "Like hell it is! Look at her. She is definitely not okay." Jason points out that abusing him isn't going to help either, and Miss Lefebvre, the creepy neighbor, answers Sookie's scream. She gasps, and walks across broken glass. Jason holds a bouquet of flowers: the lost language, to say that he's sorry for scaring her, for pointing the finger, for seeing his own darkness and his curiosity in her. For his jealousy.
Miss Lefebvre immediately asks what Jason did, how it happened, and Sookie shakes her head, saying he just got there, but Miss Lefebvre knows better. "I saw you last night. I heard you all fighting, then she took a shot at you, and you ran off. And now she's dead?" Sookie's stunned. Jason admits that they fought, but he came back to apologize for pushing her to it. Sookie's confused -- she takes a shot at you and you're the one apologizing? -- but the explanation is too confusing, too open, too honest. He can't speak a word. He came with flowers and a vial of V: she was angry, wasn't she, because he couldn't get it up? That was his apology: flowers and the only thing he's got.
Miss Lefebvre runs off to call the cops, and Jason throws the flowers, pissed. "Then call 'em! I had nothing to do with this." It follows him like a scent, it marks him. Sookie stares after him; he sits on Dawn's porch silently, staring at the world.
Bon Temps gathers outside Dawn's home, staring at the closed door, from a safe distance, fascinated and terrified. Hoyt Fortenberry can't understand how something so beautiful could die like that, in the night, with the world all around. Arlene offers the suggestion that perhaps it was Dawn's time to go, but Rene knows better. "Ahh, she was only 23 years old. Ain't no 23-year-old in the world whose time has come." Hoyt's mother Maxine comes running up with a fan and a golf visor, playing Southern Lady. Like a vampire's black coffin, like a fangbanger's collar. Hoyt tells her Dawn's dead, but that's not what she wanted to know. There's nothing sensational about what already happened, when something's happening right now.