Chapter Twenty-Seven
Carrie had checked over more than forty of the sick devices, yet she remained no closer to an answer to her problem. The best doctor in the world couldn’t cure the third generation placktoids of their colds, let alone her. She’d suffered for three or four long days with the dreadful virus. It was a real stinker, and she knew just how the devices must feel.
If she’d had the first idea how to cure her cold, she would have done it for herself. Goodness knew how many remedies she’d tried. None of them had worked more than a little, so she seriously doubted they would have an effect on placktoids, assuming she could even figure out how to deliver them.
How could she give a placktoid a hot lemon and honey drink? Where would she rub Vicks ointment or apply raw onion slices
