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Nothing could have been further from the truth. In point of fact, nothing at all was going to be just fine. On the contrary, everything was going to be bad. Bad? I mean worse than it already was.

— Oh, fuck.

It wasn't my baby. She wasn't my baby. Baby Dawn. She wasn't mine. Spud's? Swanney's? Sick Boy's? I don't know. Maybe Allison knew, maybe not. I wished I could think of something to say, something sympathetic, something human.

— Say something, Mark. Fucking say something!
— I'm cooking up.

— Cook one for me, Renton. I need a hit.

And so she did, I could understand that. To take the pain away. So I cooked up and she got a hit, but only after me. That went without saying.

Well, at least we knew who the father was now. It wasn't just the baby that died that day. Something inside Sick Boy was lost and never returned. It seemed he had no theory with which to explain a moment like this.
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