She thought of Priya’s face, twisted into a rictus of hate. You can have a child, and hold that child against your own skin, and raise it. You can betray yourself and your values for that child. You can let the child escape, even though you know it should die—know, no matter how strong and firm its hand is in yours, that it is a blight and must be hollowed from the world to give the world chance enough to survive. And that child can look at you, with fury and contempt, and leave you to die.
