The girl's mother sits in the rocking chair with a blanket draped over her lap. The blanket was crocheted by the woman not much more than a year ago. The doctor, a tall man with silky blonde hair and milky white skin, tells her to breathe.
"Please, listen," says the woman to the doctor. "I'm dying. The Spanish Flu will take me soon, and I will be at peace. But my son…" the woman's voice trails off as she looks at her son in the hospital bed. He is pale with disease, but his soft brown eyes and matching hair are still vibrant. "Save him, please," she says, her voice, barely more than a whisper, comes out choked and pained. She will be gone soon.
"If I could not save you, I don't know that I can save him." The doctor's eyes are gentle, and there is sadness evident in his golden eyes. There are rings of blue in his eyes, almost as if they are trying to be blue again.
"Save him, as only you can." Her eyes are earnest, pleading. The man looks shocked, his face even paler than it was before, if that is even possible. "Save her…" The doctor's expression is now confused, for he didn't think that the woman had a daughter.
Still, he files the woman's death report and then her son. The doctor took the son down to the morgue and locked the door.
The boy's screams could be heard echoing throughout the hospital that night. And, if you listened closely, you could hear that his screams were of a different pain than those dying of the Spanish Influenza.