Pudica presented Oliver with a box of apple juice by holding a straw to his mouth. Half-awake, he raised his head some degrees and pouted his lips to extract the sweet liquid.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
His wife brushed his puffy eyebrows with her thumb and said nothing. She looked at the thermometer in her hand, huffing at the number one-hundred-and-two. Before Robert retired for the night, he advised if the fever increased by one more degree, she should call him straightaway. She rested her ear on his chest with an intense need to hear him alive.
“Are you familiar with plants?” Betsy asked in a cautious tone.
Pudica sat up on the bed startled by her presence. She frowned at the question pondering about its relevance. Because of the lack of medical supplies, Cubans resor
