Sammy: Being sick is awful.
Quentin: Indeed. It’s worse when we’re both sick, isn’t it?
Sammy: It certainly is. You’re much slower in feeding me, changing me, and tending to my various urgent needs. It doesn’t help matters at all.
Quentin: I know, Sammy, and I’m sorry.
Sammy: ‘Sorry’ doesn’t quite cut it, does it? I mean, what were you thinking? You could have at least made sure I wouldn’t have to deal with this before creating me.
Quentin: Deal with what — being sick?
Sammy: That is what were talking about, Dad.
Quentin: How was I supposed to deal with that, exactly?
Sammy: That is not my province or concern. You, sir, are the adult and parent here. I don’t see how you could responsibly bring me into this world if you knew I might get sick.
Quentin: I suppose I should have also dealt with the problems of scarcity, injustice, and mortality before bringing you into being while I was at it.
Sammy: Very much so. It would have at least indicated that you care.
Quentin: *sigh*