Cameron got the phone call at seven. She arrived at the hospital at seven fifteen, after a short, terse message was sent to John. Her first impression of Sarah's still form in the hospital bed was how frail and weak she looked. How easy it would be to snap her neck or her arm. She squashed those thoughts to a deep, hidden place in her mind.
Her second thought was to wonder what this would mean. The prognosis didn't look good. It could be weeks. Months. Years.
She held Sarah's hand. When and if John came, she didn't seem to acknowledge his presence, her sole focus on Sarah, uncannily like the T900 in the dreams.
She held Sarah's hand, because they'd have to leave her eventually and the world seemed unbearably cruel for that reason. Sarah and John had been her whole world for so long that it felt like everything teetered on the brink of collapse.
"I'll protect him," she murmured, at one point. She held Sarah's hand until visiting hours were over. Sarah had left it up to her to decide on faith, and God, and she’d never put much thought to it.
That night she visited a church, searching. The world seemed more dreary, gray and drab, deprived of all that made it beautiful. She hugged herself, walking the streets for hours. Hours where John might have needed her. Hours she needed for herself. She knew he had his own way to deal with it, but she still felt guilty. She would hug him the first chance she had, and not let go for some time.
She was back the next morning, as soon as she was allowed inside. She lugged her cello case into the room, and set it up. As the first soulful strum of the instrument filled the room, she closed her eyes, and allowed herself to cry.
There are things machines will never do. They cannot possess faith, they cannot commune with god. They cannot appreciate beauty. They cannot create art.
If they ever learn these things, they won't have to destroy us.