The price exacted by Blair was one with which I was all-too-familiar: blindingly rapid age.  As I saw her suffer, I felt a cruelty in me that was intoxicating and deeply shaming.  It was shaming in that I could not show the pity her tears beseeched.  And yet, even with her gun in my hand, I could not discharge it.

Having fought for life for so long and having achieved it, I posit that I value life more than anyone.  I have known the savagery of draining it from the innocent.  I have had it seized from me and those I loved.  Now that I have it once more, it is unthinkable to steal one more.

What her friends — such as Nicholas Blair — or my friends — such as Julia Hoffman — are moved to do?  That is another matter.




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