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"Your daughter's in love, Ms. Perez. This is no time to pinch pennies." The old cow just stared at me with those tiny black eyes, like raisins pressed into dogshit. "Now then," I said, "We'll start with an intensive course of isolation therapy—" "No, Dr. Marsten, please. My Louisa, she cannot stand to be alone..." I took off my reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Ms. Perez, be reasonable. We've already discussed the alternatives. Your daughter is a very sick girl. Do you know what she has to look forward to, unless properly medicated? Emotional dependence, depersonalization and irrational neediness, pathological jealousy and possessiveness, increasing inability to function alone, delusions of oneness with the object of her demented affection, and finally Ms. Perez—" "No," the simpering bitch murmurred, as if in a stupor. "Yes, Ms. Perez: marriage and procreation. Your daughter will voluntarily immure herself in that barbaric institution, a stifling, regressive environment of emotional and intellectual stagnation, denying herself a full, healthy range of sexual, and, by extension, psychological experience. She will subordinate and repress her own needs to serve what in her very sick mind is the highest possible good: the chimerical tyrant that is her love for this, uh—" "Fernando." "Yes, this Fernando. And I might remind you, Ms. Perez, any children they raise in that toxic environment will be permanently scarred. If not for your daughter's sake, Ms. Perez, think of your future grandchildren, who surely have not asked to be born into—" "Enough! I'll do whatever you say! I... just want my daughter to be well!" "Good. Good. I don't mean to be cruel, Ms. Perez, but your daughter needs immediate help. Now then, if you could just sign the release form here, and here, we'll have her committed by this evening." "I... feel like I've failed her. Where did I go wrong? I tried to be a good example: I was promiscuous through her entire childhood, I barely ever hugged her... no dolls..." "Don't blame yourself. There's no telling who will succumb to this horrible disease, and it is a disease, Ms. Perez, make no mistake about it. DAMN IT! We've cured everything... everything... the last known case of schizophrenia died over 15 years ago... unipolar and bipolar disorders have been contained with medicine and lasers... we systematically cauterized the genomic sequence responsible for religion before either of us was born! But this monster, this irrational beast called love continues to elude us, mowing down millions of innocents every year and costing untold trillions in lost productivity... no genetic trail, no developmental correlation... every time we think we have it, the motherfucker gets away from us!!" I swiped some manila folders off my desk. "Doctor!" "Forgive me, Ms. Perez. Forgive me. But I've sat behind this desk for well nigh three decades, and I never get used to it... the ravages... I'm tired, Ms. Perez... so tired..." "Oh, doctor. I had no idea... would you like to...?" Ms. Perez stood and half-turned, grabbing the back of the chair with one hand and, with the other, hiking her black skirt up past her knee-high stockings; irregular lumps of quartzy fat dripped over the nylon piping. Well now. The old bitch had a few tricks up her sleeve after all. "Yes," I said. "Yes, I would like to. Show me that brandied fuckprune, you cock-famished puta!"