36
Sara
Shaking, I stand up as Peter lapses into feverish Russian, mumbling unfamiliar words interspersed with his son’s name, as he’s been doing for hours. Despite my best efforts, his condition is rapidly deteriorating, and I know that if I don’t get stronger antibiotics into his system, he won’t make it.
The penicillin I stole from the hospital can only do so much.
The wooden walls sway around me as I walk over to the sink and return with a cool, wet towel—the only thing that seems to help him. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I smooth it over his face, neck, and chest, wiping away the sticky sweat. My arm trembles from exhaustion, my eyes burning from tears, but I don’t stop.
I can’t—not while there’s still a sliver of hope.
My whole body aches, my back spasming from the stra
