I'm bound to tell the story; that's where I belong. -Paul Simon I sort of had to write this. I don't know why yet. It's the same reason I was going around with the camcorder, I guess; what's happening here is important, and someone needs to record it for posterity. I'm also still alive. I don't know why on that one either. We're at a motel a few miles outside of Sunnydale. It's empty, like everything else around here. We could've each had our own room, but nobody wanted to split up just yet, so we've taken four connecting rooms and the lobby, and dragged in extra mattresses. Buffy and Dawn and a couple of the other girls went to see if they could find us some food. They're not back yet. There's a bizarre kind of party going on in the lobby. About half of the girls are riding high on still being alive, and about half of them are crying on each other, and some of them are doing both. Who's doing what doesn't seem to have anything to do with how badly they're hurt. A lot of us are hurt, some worse than others; the girls are all Slayers now, of course, so they'll heal fast. Not Dawn, though, and not Wood, and not Xander, and not me. But we're all still alive. Well -- all of us here are still alive. We left behind our dead. I'm still hoping that we didn't leave behind any of our dying. I just realized. My camcorder and all the tapes I made. They're all gone. Anyway, Giles has got Willow and Faith helping him with some basic first aid in the other room -- wait, no, it's just Faith now. Xander went off by himself about half an hour ago, and ten minutes ago Willow went after him. I hope he talks to her. I can guess he won't talk to me; I wouldn't talk to me if I were him. Dammit, Andrew, stop dancing around it and say it. I should be dead. God, there are so many reasons why I should be dead, and I can't think of one single good reason why I'm not. I tried to be a criminal mastermind because I thought it sounded like a cool thing to be. I listened to the First Evil because I thought it told a good story. I killed the only friend I ever had because I thought ... No. There's no because I thought I can put there. I killed Jonathan, I stuck a knife in him and watched him bleed out until he was white and cold, and I did it because I was told to. And yes I'm sorry, and yes I wish I could take it back, but I know better than that. That isn't how it works. Being sorry isn't enough, I know that. I knew that this morning, when we left the house. I knew where we were going, and what we were going to do there, and I figured it was the only chance I'd ever get to do something right enough to make up for the wrong. That's why I didn't think to bring along the camcorder, or any of the rest of my stuff. I didn't plan on living long enough to need it. Being sorry isn't enough. I know that. I should be dead. The only reason I'm not is because Anya died instead of me. And whoever's idea that was, it sucks, okay? She was smart, and funny, and strong, and there's people here who need her, and what the hell good am I going to do anybody by still being alive? ...I guess that's something I'd better figure out. Because there has to be a reason why I survived when I should have died. I don't mean a reason why Anya died instead of me; that's simple. She died because she fought like a wild thing, and she fought because she loved us. All of us. Humanity. I don't know if anybody else knew that about her, and I don't know if anybody else ever will. That's not what I'm talking about. I mean a reason for me to still be alive. A reason why anybody at all should care that I'm sitting here now, in a motel five miles from Sunnydale, instead of buried in the giant slag pit over the Hellmouth with Anya, and Spike, and Warren, and Jonathan. One good reason. Even if I have to make it myself.