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“Well, I’ll accept your confession, but it sounds like you need something more than the sacrament of the confessional.”
“It’s because the memories are from other people.”
“ . . .”
“Did you hear me?”
“So you’ve received bits of the unwound?”
“Yes, but—”
“Son, you can’t be held responsible for the acts of a mind that isn’t yours, any more than you can be responsible for the acts of a grafted hand.”
“I have a couple of those, too.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Camus Comprix. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“ . . .”
“I said my name is—”
“—yes, yes, I heard you, I heard you. I’m just surprised you’re here.”
“Because I’m soulless?”
“Because I very rarely hear confessions from public figures.”
“Is that what I am? A public figure?”
“Why are you here, son?”
“Because I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I might not . . . be . . . .”
“Your presence here proves you exist.”
“But as what? I need you to tell me that I’m not a spoon! That I’m not a teapot!”
“You make no sense. Please, there are people waiting.”
“No! This is important! I need you to tell me . . . . I need to know . . . if I qualify as a human being.”
“You must know that the church has not taken an official position on unwinding.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“Yes, yes, I know it’s not. I know. I know.”
“In your opinion as a man of the cloth . . .”
“You ask too much of me. I am here to give absolution, nothing more.”
“But you have an opinion, don’t you?”
“ . . .”
“When you first heard of me?”
