"Don't try to help, Edward. We are not deserving of it."

That was all she said.

Ed stared at the ceiling.

"Yeah."

He could think of no justification for helping people. They certainly didn't [i]deserve[/i] his help in any sense of the word; if they did, any assistance rendered would merely be their due wages. By that measure, nobody deserved help. Even the poor beggar thrown to the street by bad luck didn't deserve help. He could not accept that. Perhaps the profit came on the giver's end, not the receiver's; after all, do not people feel better after having given generously? Does not a well-spent gift earn allies in the battle for life? But then, what does it profit a man to give in secret, so that the recipient knows not the giver? There was no answer to that.

"I guess you're right."

He turned under the covers.

Ed still couldn't accept that answer, though. The truth seemed so obvious, just on the tip of his tongue, yet so distant, that when it finally came to him, he felt a genuine sense of relief.

"It's their life," he concluded. "Their circumstances are their responsibility. And my circumstances are my responsibility. This is my life, and I have the freedom to choose how I shall spend it. I choose to help. That is all."

He closed his eyes and smiled.

"You spoke my name for the first time. I'm glad."

[i]Sleep well, Sofie.[/i]