Mattan urged his pony under the gate arch. Hooves crunched on the loose gravel. He rode slowly down the drive, looking left and right at the names on the markers, the ages of the deceased and the dates of their deaths. Most were in their mid-twenties, a few younger. None had reached old age.
Pretty selective fever that ignored the older and, Mattan figured, frailer.
He spotted the name he was searching for and dismounted. On a fresh grave was a marker with a single name: Joseph. Carefully he removed the wilting flowers from his coat pocket and laid them across the dirt mound. He contemplated the sorry offering, lost in his own thoughts until the rattle of wheels on gravel disturbed them.
A four wheel covered buggy was coming along the drive towards him, away from the hospital. Mattan gr
