The young boy was dying.
Nobody doubted that. Not the nurses. Not the doctors. Not any of the other young patients in the clinic who were kept safely away, in case the disease that was burning inside him could spread its deadly reach. The only issue left in doubt was when the curtain would fall on his young life. Nurses took care to wear masks when they wiped his forehead with cool, damp cloths to try to keep the fever down. Or at least to make him a little more comfortable. He was delirious. When he opened his eyes, the nurses saw that he focused on nothing. His eyes had the watery, vacant look they knew all too well. It pained them to know he was suffering. They liked the boy.
He was only seven years old, give or take a few weeks. His exact birthday could only be guessed at, since he was found as an infant on the doorstep of a foundling hospital in the town of Redhill, outside London. It could have been worse. He could have been abandoned somewhere in the city.
He was given the name Alexander, after the conquering Greek general, in the hopes he would battle the odds and survive to create a sound life for himself. Though always smaller than his peers and often sickly, it looked as if he would do exactly that. Alexander was fearless. Better, he was smart. While the other boys dominated him physically, Alexander was able to talk his way out of most situations. He never threw a punch in anger, nor was one thrown at him. Ever. While boys fought around him and bloody noses were as common as pollen on the breeze, Alexander was never touched. He never insulted, nor was bothered by insults hurled his way. Boys much older than he would seek his guidance. The masters and mistresses who cared for the orphans were amazed at Alexander’s wisdom and self-confidence. They had high hopes for their young conquering hero.
Until the fall of 1937, when he became sick. The diagnosis wasn’t certain. It started as a simple cold, but rather than run its course, it ran roughshod over the frail Alexander. The doctors at the hospital’s clinic feared it was pneumonia. Or worse, influenza. They remembered the influenza epidemic of 1918. It was a global disaster that killed somewhere between twenty and forty million people. Twenty years later there was still no vaccination against the dread disease. The doctors at the foundling hospital feared for Alexander’s life, but the fear of what might happen should his illness spread was worse. They kept the young boy comfortable, but isolated. Their ability to battle his illness was limited. They knew that Alexander’s body would have to heal itself.
Alexander’s body was losing.
His fever rarely dropped below a hundred. He lost weight. The nurses would clutch their arms around their waists when they heard his horrible coughing, as if each hack were just as painful to them as to the poor, sick boy. Everyone agreed that if he had been physically strong to begin with, he might have had a chance to beat the illness. But Alexander was a waif. He looked sickly even when his health was perfect.
After three weeks of decline, the best they could hope for was that the end would come quickly and painlessly. They didn’t want to see their favorite young charge suffer any longer.
It was past midnight that November. Alexander lay in his hospital bed, surrounded by a white sheet that had been erected as a screen to keep any questionable airborne particles from finding their way to other, healthier lungs. This was being overly cautious. The rest of the children had been moved out and made to double up in the ward next door. Alexander was alone. He was frightened. He wanted one of the nurses to come and sit with him, but he never asked. He hoped they would have come on their own. They didn’t. He knew why. They were afraid of what he had inside.
Alexander was also angry. He didn’t understand why the doctors couldn’t help him. He hated that the nurses left him alone. It didn’t make sense to him that with all their knowledge and complicated talk and fascinating, shiny instruments, they couldn’t do something as simple as fix what was wrong with him. He wanted them to be smarter. He desperately needed them to be smarter. They weren’t.
He managed to push one of the drapes aside so that he got a view through the window up near the ceiling. Through the glass he saw stars. He wanted to be outside. He wanted to take a deep breath of fresh, cold air. The thought alone made him cough. The coughing hurt. He wanted the hurt to stop. He didn’t care how. Not anymore. He was tired of fighting.
He saw a shadow flash quickly past the window. It got his attention, if only because it was something different to think about. He wondered what it might have been. A bird? A tree branch? A passing airplane? The angel of death? He kept looking, hoping to see it again. It was something to do. The shadow didn’t return and Alexander gave up waiting. He wanted to sleep. His chest hurt. He knew his fever was spiking again because he had the shivers. He tensed to fight it, which made his muscles ache all the more.
He called out, “Hello?” which made him cough again. The pain tore through his chest and stomach. He stopped calling. He wasn’t so sure he wanted help anyway. Whenever his fever spiked, the nurses dunked him in a cold tub of water. He never understood why, if his body temperature was so high, he felt cold. Being dunked into cold water when you were already freezing was a nightmare. He didn’t want any more nightmares. He wanted to sleep in peace. He clutched his thin blanket around him and concentrated. He willed himself to relax and clear his mind. He didn’t want to be awake. He didn’t want to be tortured anymore. He wanted to sleep…and not wake up. Mercifully, sleep came.
When he thought back on that night, which he did many times, Alexander didn’t remember if he had any dreams. He remembered the feeling of being totally relaxed. It was such a welcome relief, it was worth remembering. He remembered not shivering anymore. He remembered not feeling pain. He had the vivid memory of thinking that he must have died. It was the only logical explanation for feeling well again. It had been so long, he had almost forgotten what it was like to be pain free. He remembered feeling warmth and light on his face. Was he in heaven? He had to see. Alexander cautiously opened his eyes, expecting to see the pearly gates.
What he saw instead were the same windows of the hospital ward. The only difference was that it was morning. Bright sun shone in, warming his face. He was at peace. He felt… good. But that didn’t make sense. He actually wondered if he were still asleep and living inside a dream. There was nothing out of the ordinary happening, other than the fact that he felt so good. Alexander decided that if this was a dream, he was going to take advantage of it. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow inhale through his nose. His lungs expanded. He braced his body, ready to be racked by the horrid coughs.
They didn’t come. Alexander let his breath out and took another, this time through his mouth. He filled his lungs with air until they felt ready to burst. He blew the air out and took another so quickly it made him light- headed. It wasn’t the dizziness that came from fever, either. It was the result of too much oxygen being sent through a system that wasn’t used to getting much at all.
Alexander laughed. He couldn’t help himself. It was the best dream he’d ever had. Either that, or he’d died and gone to heaven. He didn’t care which. All that mattered was that his head and his lungs were clear.
“Alexander?” came the concerned call of a nurse. “Alexander lad, why’re you laughing like that?”
The nurse poked her head in tentatively through the curtain, as if not wanting to expose the rest of her body to the germ-infested enclosure. She had a thick white mask over her mouth and nose. Her eyes went wide with wonder when she looked upon Alexander, who lifted his head off the pillow to greet her.
“Morning, mum,” he called cheerily. “Might there be some toast about for brekkie? I’m famished.”
The nurse’s eyes grew even wider. She drifted through the curtains, her eyes trained on Alexander. She approached the bed, hesitated, then lifted her hand to touch his forehead. She instantly pulled her hand back, as if Alexander were electrified.
“Alexander,” she whispered in astonishment. “Your fever’s broken.”
Alexander answered, “I didn’t break it, mum. I promise.”
The nurse didn’t remove her mask, but Alexander could tell she was smiling. “Well, maybe you did and maybe you didn’t, but there’s one thing for sure…it’s a miracle.” She backed away from the boy, finally pulling off her mask. Her smile was as big and broad as Alexander thought. It made him smile as well. “It’s a miracle!” she repeated and ran off through the curtains, calling, “Doctor! Doctor! Come quickly!”
Alexander lay there smiling. He wasn’t sure why. He felt good, that was for certain, but after all, it was only a dream. He thought he would wake up soon enough, to be right back where he’d started, shivering and in pain. His only hope was that this glorious dream would last a while longer.
He shifted his weight to get a better view of the window overhead. That’s when he felt it. There was something in his hand. He hadn’t noticed up until then because he hadn’t moved much. But when he went to pivot his body, he realized that something was in his right hand. He squeezed it. It was hard, like a small stone. Or a marble. A shooter marble. But he didn’t remember bringing a marble to bed with him, and the nurses definitely wouldn’t have allowed it. With more than a little curiosity, Alexander used his left hand to pull the thin blanket away. He didn’t need it anymore. He was plenty warm enough. Once the covering was gone, Alexander lifted his
