Mrs. Brownlow pressed her wide, uninvited ginger self into our camp. She wagged her finger at Willie as though damning the poor mother to hell. “You get that boy out of that cramped wagon, Mrs. Wetherfield. He needs the air. Everyone knows cholera is caused by miasma and these vapors ain’t helping him.”
“No,” I said. “It’s the water. Cholera comes from dirty water.”
“Oh, Miss Big-Bug has something to say about it, does she? With her educated ways you’d think she’d know a thing or two about cholera.”
I spun toward the hard-faced woman. “I know that cholera comes from dirty water. I know that we’re going to keep boiling every ounce of water we drink. You do what you want. I hope your…” No. I stopped myself though there was so much more I wanted to say. I wanted to cut her down with viciou
