1917

March 12, 1918

I almost died of the Spanish Flu. It swept through the population like a relentless whip, lashing out indiscriminately and leaving devastation in its path. And I? I was the one whipped, struck down by the invisible force that seemed determined to claim as many lives as it could.

The fever hit me first, a fire burning through my body that no amount of cool cloths or herbal remedies could extinguish. My chest ached with every breath, like an anvil pressing down harder with each passing moment. The coughing was relentless, wracking my body until it felt like I’d break apart. It wasn’t just sickness—it was a battle, and I wasn’t sure I’d win.

People around me spoke in hushed tones, fearful even to whisper the disease’s name, as though saying it aloud might summon it closer. In the streets, fear was as contagious as the flu itself, everyone wary of who might be the next to fall. And there I was, trapped in my own fevered haze, too weak to care about anything but surviving the next hour, and then the next day.

Somehow, I held on, though it felt more like clinging to a frayed rope over a chasm. It left me scarred in ways that went beyond the physical, a haunting reminder of how close I came to being just another name on the list of the lost.

For the fever, I took aspirin—the only remedy we had back then to bring the temperature down. At first, it seemed to work. For a day or two, I felt a faint glimmer of relief, like maybe I could claw my way out of the sickness. But that hope was short-lived. The symptoms came roaring back, worse than ever, like a storm that refused to pass.

It wasn’t just the fever or the coughing anymore; my mind began slipping into places I couldn’t control. In the haze of delirium, I saw my brother Carson standing at the edge of my bed as clear as the sunlight filtering through the curtains. His face looked just as I remembered, but there was a hollowness to his eyes—a haunting reminder of what I’d lost.

I tried to speak to him, reaching out with trembling hands, but he didn’t respond. He just stood there, silent and still, like a specter tethered to my suffering. The pain was unbearable—not just in my body but in my soul. I wanted it to end. I wanted to let go, to slip away into the darkness where Carson waited. At least in death, I thought, we’d be together again, free from this wretched world and the plague tearing it apart.

But somehow, through the hallucinations and the despair, something kept me clinging to life. Whether it was instinct or stubbornness, I’ll never know. But as much as I longed for the peace of reunion, fate had other plans for me.

“Papa?” I croaked, my voice barely a whisper, choked by the weight of the fever. Every word felt like it might be my last, as though the act of speaking itself was enough to undo me. My body ached, and I felt certain that if I closed my eyes again, I wouldn’t wake.

“Yes, Jeremy?” he answered softly, leaning close. His face was etched with weariness, the kind that comes from days without rest and the crushing fear of losing someone you love. His expression betrayed him, a quiet sadness creeping through despite the calm he tried to project.

“Am I going to die?” I asked, my tone as serious as the question itself. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted the truth. I wasn’t sure if I could bear it.

“No,” he said firmly, though his voice wavered just enough to reveal his own uncertainty. “We will defeat this wretched illness together.” He gave me a brave smile as if willing the words into reality.

I wanted to smile back, to share in his hope, but the pain coursing through my body wouldn’t allow it. All I could do was stare at him, trying to draw strength from his resolve, even as my own felt like it was slipping away. His presence was a lifeline, a reminder that I wasn’t alone in this fight, even when it felt like the sickness was all-encompassing.

“Take more aspirin, dear,” my mother said softly, handing me the small pill with trembling fingers. Her voice carried a mixture of worry and determination, as though this tiny tablet was the shield she could offer against the storm raging inside me.

I swallowed it obediently, feeling the faint bitterness on my tongue before the pill disappeared down my throat. It wasn’t much, but it was my only relief—however fleeting—from the relentless agony that gripped me. For a few hours, it dulled the edges of the fever, enough to make me believe I might survive another day.

But the respite was always temporary. Soon the fire in my body would roar back to life, consuming me from the inside out. Even in those brief moments of relief, I could see the desperation in my mother’s eyes as she watched over me, silently praying that this small act of care would somehow be enough. Her presence gave me a sliver of comfort, but the pain was still there, gnawing at my resolve, and I couldn’t help but wonder how much longer I could endure it.

The fever gripped me tighter, dragging me further into its cruel illusions. Carson appeared again, as vivid as life, sitting at the edge of my bed with that mischievous grin he always wore when he had a joke to tell.

“Why was the scarecrow promoted?” he asked, his voice ringing out as clear as day.

I managed a weak smile, despite the crushing pain. “Because he was amazing in his field,” I croaked back, the answer slipping out automatically, just like it had every time he told it.

My father’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and worried. “Who the hell are you talking to?” he asked, leaning closer with a look of pure anxiety.

“I saw Carson,” I murmured, my words stumbling over themselves as I tried to explain. “He was right there, telling his jokes.”

My mother knelt beside me, her arms wrapping around my fragile body in a hug that felt both comforting and suffocating. “Sweetie, he died last year,” she whispered softly, her voice breaking as she held me tighter.

I knew she was right, of course. Nothing could change the fact that Carson was gone, not even the fevered tricks of my mind. I appreciated her embrace—it was warm, human—but it couldn’t bridge the void his absence left in my heart. Carson’s jokes, his laughter, his presence… they were just echoes now, cruelly conjured up by the fever, a fleeting reminder of everything I’d lost.

I began to do the “If I die before I wake” prayer, and my parents looked at me as if I had lost my mind.

“You’re not going to die, Jeremiah. Don’t you worry,” my mother said firmly, her voice steady even as her eyes betrayed the fear she tried so hard to hide. She stroked my damp forehead with a cool cloth, her hands trembling just enough for me to notice.

I wanted to believe her. I wanted her words to be true, but deep down, I felt like she was lying—not maliciously, of course, but out of love, out of the desperate hope that saying it might make it so. The heaviness in my chest, the fire in my body, the weakness in my limbs—they all told a different story, one she refused to acknowledge.

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to voice my doubts. The words sat on the tip of my tongue but never escaped. She didn’t need to hear my fear; she was already carrying enough of her own. Instead, I just nodded weakly, letting her assurance hang in the air between us like a fragile thread I couldn’t afford to sever.

Eventually, it was time for me to sleep again—as if I hadn’t spent the entire day drifting in and out of restless slumber. The fever made time meaningless, stretching every second into eternity. School had been canceled due to the Spanish Flu sweeping through town, leaving the streets eerily quiet and the air thick with unease.

I wondered, briefly, if Abel had fallen victim to the illness. Then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to care about him—not after what he’d done. Locked away in prison for felony arson in the first degree, Abel had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. I shook the thought away, though it lingered in the corners of my mind, unresolved.

My thoughts wandered to Gavrilo Princip, the man whose actions had sparked a war that had changed the world. What was he doing now? Was he even alive? Was he lying in some cell as I lay here in my own feverish prison? The randomness of it all felt overwhelming, and yet it seemed fitting for the chaos we were living through.

The urge to hit the sack grew stronger, my body crying out for rest despite the hours I’d already spent in bed. The weight of my eyelids became impossible to resist, and I practically passed out, slipping into a dreamless void. Tomorrow, I thought, maybe tomorrow I’ll feel better. It was a faint hope, but it was something. At least I had that going for me.