"I refuse to be used to wash octogenarians who couldn't have the courtesy to recognize my existence," Gideon says, "I refuse to be used to clean stairs that cracked my ribs as I was dragged down them. I refuse to farm the fields where I was mocked for trying to find my mother. I refuse to be of service to the house that claimed I owed them my life and my death for the privilege of not being left to starve to death. I refuse to let my corpse aid those that tried to burn my life as fuel." She nearly gasps at the end of that and takes breaths to calm herself down.

Her brain isn't thinking well, not that thinking well would mean she has an answer to that. "With brains," Gideon says. "With remembering that people are people. With those people that are such fucking geniuses using that to find another way."