The summer sun burns into my back. Sweat trickles down my spine. I keep on heaving the buckets of water, knowing that Mother would be upset if I stopped before I was supposed to. I grab a watering can and spray it over the flowers. /They’ll soon be big and beautiful/ I tell myself. Although I know that they’ll remain small and leafless forever, even if I water them everyday. The plants seem to hate me. After hours of torturous work, finally the lunch bell rings. I throw down the can, spilling out the water still inside and denting some of the metal. I don’t care. Mother might, but not me. I race up to the front porch and yank open the creaky old door. I’ll probably have to repaint it after I eat. It bangs behind me and I slow to a walk, for Mother always says, “I’ve told you, Scarlet, and I’ll tell you again, NO RUNNING IN THE HOUSE!” And then she would send me to work again without lunch. I snatch a sandwich and an apple from the counter, whip around, and speed-walk outside. Although Mother hates it, she can’t forbid me from running outside. So every day after I swiftly gobble down my lunch, I sprint over to the field that my neighbors own. There, I meet my best friend, Timothy. Then we race around in the field and laugh and play until Mother calls me to work again. As soon as the apple core is in the compost bin, I’m racing down to the field. Timothy is waiting in his saggy trousers held up by suspenders. He looks as sweaty as me. “Hey, um, Scar, I’m kinda tired today,” he pants. “Maybe we can take a break for a bit?” “Of course!” I say. He smiles gratefully and plops onto the grass. I lower myself down next to him. I guess he forgot that grass irritates me, but it’s fine. “So, what did you learn at school today?” On days like this, he tells me about his lucky education at the schoolhouse two blocks away. I’ve begged and begged Mother to let me learn, but she responds with a simple, “No, we need work on the farm. Maybe next year.” She’s said that every year. “Oh, we had today off. It’s Saturday, you know,” he responds. His brow is red, although I can see goosebumps creeping up his bare arms. “Are you okay?” I ask. He doesn’t look normal. I gasp. “You have a fever!” I exclaim. Just then, he falls back, his eyelids closed. I let out a scream. His parents come running out of their house. They see Timothy and their jaws drop. I’m gasping, fear seizing me in its grip. His mother races down. “Oh, my Timothy, my poor, poor Timothy,” she holds up his head. “Scarlet, go get the doctor. Hurry, go!” I don’t hesitate for a heartbeat. I’m using all of my speed, nearly flying, to get the doctor. If I’m not fast enough, Timothy could d!e. I run one, two, three, to many blocks to count before I finally reach the doctor’s office. I pull open the door, just like I had done to reach my house. I bell rings. “Sir, please! Timothy Hodges, he’s passed out from a fever!” I shriek. It takes about two seconds for everything to be in a buggy, including me. He wh!ps the horses and they run, knowing someone’s life depends on how fast they can go. I bury my head in my hands. Fear crawls through me. After what seems like hours, we finally pull up to the house. The doctor grabs his things and races out. Timothy is still lying in the field. I can tell something’s wrong. More wrong than before. His face is red, like, actually red, not the pinkish color some people describe it as. He’s frantically rolling around, trying to get rid of the warmth and cold at the same time. The doctor, Dr. Nelson, kneels down. “Scarlet fever,” he whispers. He looks at Timothy’s parents. “I’ll try, but he might not make it.” I begin to sob. It’s all my fault. If only I’d realized something was wrong. Timothy rarely sweats, for his parents are quite careful with him. I should’ve known. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I’m wrapped up in a big hug, being rocked back and forth, back and forth. I look up. It’s Timothy’s mother. “That must’ve been quite a scare,” she whispers. “But he’s okay. They’ve cooled him down, his fever is subsiding. Your speed to the doctor saved his life.” She smiles weakly. “But we’re not sure he’ll make it for sure just yet.” All the relief that had filled me seeps out after she says those eleven He has to live. If he doesn’t, I’ll be broken. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Days pass, and slowly Timothy gains back his strength. Dr.Nelson stops by every day and checks on him. I never return it the field. Neither does Timothy. I’m bored out of my mind without the adventure of the field, but every time I think of it, I think of Timothy’s fever. How he was part of the 25% that survived. I hear a knock at the door. I walk over and open it. I’d never got around to fixing it. Timothy is standing on the door step, a crooked grin painted on his face. He’s wrapped up in a hug in moments.
Covet drawn by meh This takes place in times where there were schoolhouses and they trusted children to go home, eat their lunch, and return to school. As well as your average fever being a HUGE deal. They also didn’t have cars. The had buggies or horse drawn carriages. And, here’s an idea, they used their legs! (Lol)
