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" "“When was it obvious she was ill?”
“Weeks ago. Or maybe—looking back on it—well—months.”
“Has she had any kind of medical attention?” Pause. “Simon?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It didn’t seem necessary.”
“It didn’t seem necessary?”
“Pastor Dan wouldn’t allow it.”
I thought: And did you tell Pastor Dan to go fuck himself?
Robert Charles Wilson (born December 15, 1953) is a Canadian science fiction author.
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His fertility cycles meant little to him. In his lifetime, he knew, he might make only one or two real contributions to the City’s genetic continuity, his viral gametes combining with others in the bodies of the night feeders to become morphologically active. It was abstractly pleasing, though, to realize he had cast his own essence into the ocean of probability, where it might come floating back unknown to him, as a fresh citizen with new and unique ideas and odors.