Tell me about yourself." "Myself?" He looks confused. "Yes," I say, patting the mattress. "You know all there is to know," he says, sitting beside me. "Not true," I say. "Where were you born? What's your favourite season? Anything." "Here. Florida," he says. "I remember a woman in a red dress with curly brown hair. Maybe she was my mother, I'm not sure. And summer. What about you?" The last part is said with a smile. He smiles so infrequently that I consider each one a trophy.

She has the majesty of hurricanes and explosions.

What have you done? What have you given up?' So many things, Cecily. More than you know.

You've been captive for so long that you don't even realize you want freedom anymore.

For males twenty-five is the fatal age. For women it's twenty. We are all dropping like flies.

Don't you miss it?" I say. "Being free." He laughs.

Cure" is one of the most precious words in the English language. It's a short word. A clean and simple word. But it isn't so easy a thing as it sounds. There are questions like: How will this affect us in ten years? In twenty? What will it do to our children? Our children's children?