Every boy in the orphanage tried to look weak and sickly when the Angel visited, but there was no point. She had been taught medicine by her father, Dr. Frankenstein himself. She would poke at them with a girl’s delicate finger, look them over with the sharpest clinical gaze, and pronounce them fit donors or not. The blood tests were mere formalities, or rather tests of a different kind. My predecessor had manipulated some to keep safe a boy he had grown attached to, a choice that had led him to the camps in Australia, and me to his post.
The rest on Adversarial Metanoia.