I'll go live on a pillar like that Greek guy Tennyson wrote about. And all my beard was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon. I could wear a fake beard, I guess. Wait. That won't work because of the sunlight thing. Would it still count if I live on a pillar with a sunroof? I'll become a nun. No, they need to wear crosses and stuff. I can do that. I deserve it. I'm a horrible person. I could have gotten away from Luke. I know I could have. It's all my fault. I -

I become aware that I can't smell Giles any more, and that Xander is peering under the table and saying something. When that doesn't work, he prods me very gingerly, as if he expects me to snap at him and take his finger off. I sit up and try to peer past him. No more Giles. I resist the temptation to start doing the can-can on the table.

Not that I care that much, anyway. I bet I could have taken Giles. I mean, so maybe he did take down Luke, but Luke was old and sloppy. And I'm very nearly sure the story about punching out a bear was pure fantasy.

Xander is talking again.

“...Not that I mind, in any case,” he says. “I mean, it's like, when a guidance counselor asks you what sort of career you'd like, most people don't say, 'Well, I'd like a job with no recognition or pay, but which compensates for these defects with an ample supply of horrible, horrible death, with optional bonus mutilation.' They're just doing it because they care for me, anyway. And they're probably right. I mean, it's not like I'm a whole lot of help. I-”

He pulls himself together and glares at me.

“Anyway, the point I was making is, is,” he takes a deep breath, “Get out.”

No. This cannot be happening. Giles is out there. They say that you can tell if he's ready to get you because your food will taste of blackberries. Did my blood taste of blackberries this morning?

“I can't,” I say, backing away through the other side of the table. “I'm stuck. I spilled superglue on the floor. It's daylight. He'll kill me. You spilled superglue on the floor when we were in sixth grade and Mr. Ruslan's shoes stuck to it but I told him I had done it and I was in detention for a week and my parents wouldn't talk to me but it was all right because you crawled through my window every evening and you promised we would be friends forever and please, Xander, don't do this to me.”

I'm making an impression, I can tell. I try to remember as much as I can of his conversation with Giles. They were talking about patrolling, weren't they?

“I can help,” I offer, in a burst of inspiration.

“Huh?”

“With patrolling. I'm patrol-worthy. I can patrol.”

“I'm not patrolling any more, anyway,” he says. “That was what I was telling you about. I'm done. I'm leaving it to people who know how to do it.”

“I know how to do it. I can show you all the hiding spots and stuff.” I search my brain, praying that I'm right. Who knows what's different here? “Like, there was this one gang that used to ambush white hats in Washington Alley, because it doesn't have many street lights and it's on the way from the school to Shady Hill Cemetery. They bagged -” Xander gives me a look - “I mean, murdered Amy that way. It was horrible,” I add unconvincingly.

“Doesn't matter,” says Xander confidently. “Buffy hardly ever patrols Shady Hill any more -”

There is a long pause. It has teeth in it.

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