My doctor wears a mask—a frightening thing, like the skull of a long-beaked bird floating above robes of darkest black; with cavernous eyes shrouded beneath a low-brimmed hat. Word around the village is he’s quite good. He’s even managed to save one or two people.
He says this illness is a plague, something sent down from Heaven to punish us. I wonder how much of a paradise Heaven can be if that’s the case. I don’t say that to him, though. He is a doctor after all, and I want to get better.
For that, I must be good.
He says this illness is a plague, something sent down from Heaven to punish us. I wonder how much of a paradise Heaven can be if that’s the case. I don’t say that to him, though. He is a doctor after all, and I want to get better.
For that, I must be good.
