Even in his youth he had been a son to regret, one dumb alcohol mistake after another. Later he had lived to drain you, a quick love buzz before you were screaming, "Come on, death." A few gypsies, tramps, and thieves later came the turnaround, and the horrified, endless, nameless vagabond's life.

Oh, the guilt. It was all apologies until he'd heard about a girl and was thrust onward into countless battles, but he still had to stay away from dreams of old age and a heart-shaped box. But it's the big long now. She's smiling at him.

Buffy's pregnant.