#6 Not without caution, you quickly exit your car and approach the woman.  The force of the cold wind outside nearly blows you over, but after a moment of shock, you manage to brace yourself against it and walk over to the fallen form, kneeling down beside her.  You see she is a girl looking to be about your age, long black hair flailing wildly about, hiding her downturned face, and wearing a dress covering her entire body down to the ankles, a dress soiled and torn jaggedly, as though she has run through these woods helter-skelter, through branches and briars and dirt in an effort to escape whatever was coming after her.  You feel deeply sympathetic, your heart going after her, but also find yourself wondering if she managed to shake whatever or whoever was after her, or if something particularly hostile could emerge from the shadows surrounding you at any moment. She has not yet responded to your presence, so you put out your hand slowly, and gently rest it on her shoulder, hoping to convey a sense of caring and security.  It is only then that you notice that, even though the air gusting around the two of you is exceptionally cold, to the point that you are having to concentrate to keep your teeth from chattering, she is not even so much as shivering slightly; even more strange, even though she is kneeling on hands and knees, looking for all the world as though she has exhausted herself with a long run, she is not breathing hard at all.  In fact, her breathing is so soft and steady that you cannot even detect it.  This situation is making less and less sense to you, so you decide to try to see if she might explain any of it. "Are you alright?" you ask, yelling to be heard.  "Do you need some help?" There is no response.  You wonder if she heard you, though you find it difficult to believe that she could not be aware of you presence.  In a more direct bid for her attention, you move from her side to her front, and boldly putting your hand under her chin, tilt her face towards you.  You nearly step back as the force of her gaze hits you.  It's not that she appears especially frightening -- in fact, her face is contorted in neither panic nor fatigue -- but there is something powerful and wild in the way her eyes lock onto yours and don't let go.  In the dark, it is hard to make out her features, even in the faint light from your headlights, though she appears neither particularly ugly or beautiful, but there is something in her half-seen face which fixes yours, and you find you cannot look away without a struggle, nor are you sure you want to.  You want to speak again, but cannot find the will to do so.  Undeniably, the next move is hers. And she makes it.  Her right hand rises and rests softly on the side of your head, a motion you are just barely aware of out of the edges of your vision, a vision dominated by her face and the dark eyes set within it.  At first, you feel just the slight pressure of her palm against your skin, but then -- -- she is inside your head, inside your mind, rummaging through it as if through a box of old clothes.  Her consciousness fills yours, her thoughts running through your mind as if they were your own, but so fast and so strange that you cannot comprehend them.  No place in your mind, your knowledge, your memories feels safe from her inspection.  You feel a tremendous sense of indignation at this forced intimacy, and yet, at the same time, a paradoxical welcoming of it, a desire to immerse yourself fully in this melding of thought and self.  You think that if you could pull away from her reach, you could regain yourself, but aren't sure if you want to. Do you:     try to pull away? --  go to #11      let her continue? -- go to #12