Sally Allison said. This was big news, and Sally relished big news. It was eight in the morning, and I’d just finished getting dressed for work when the phone rang. Sally had called to ask me the same questions Arthur had asked me the day before: had I noticed Celia Shaw exhibit any of a list of symptoms? “Yes, yes, yes,” I had answered. I detailed once again what I had observed. “Now, what does that mean?” When Sally told me, I was just as ignorant. “What is that?” “It’s a disease, a horrible hereditary disease of the central nervous system,” Sally said. She sounded almost awed by the horror of it. I would have expected a certain amount of zest to Sally’s words; after all, reporting on the horrible was her bread and butter. But whatever Huntington’s chorea was, Sally truly thought it was awful. “So, what’s the bottom line?” “The bottom line is inevitable death with your mind reduced to vegetable status. You have no control over your body at all.” “Oh.
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