âLet me see Edwin first,â was all he said.
The servant trailed behind Mark.
Upon entering, Markâs eyes met with Edwin, sprawled on the bed, his little face flushed.
A thermometer was perched at the bedâs head.
Scooping it up, Mark placed it under the boyâs armpit, his voice edged with concern.
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âHow high did his fever get?â
â39 degrees Celsius,â came the heavy reply.
A lump formed in Markâs throat.
He wiped his hands, his touch as gentle as a feather when he reached for Edwinâs forehead.
Maybe it was the coolness of his hand, but Edwin seemed to find solace there, nuzzling closer the moment he opened his eyes.
In a weak, warbling tone, Edwin whispered, âGreat uncle.
â
Confusion knit the servantâs brows.
With a tender chuckle, she corrected, âEdwin, sweetheart, youâre mistaken.
This is your father.
â
But clarity didnât return to Edwinâs eyes.
Nestling his face into the cool cradle of Markâs hand, he murmured again, âGreat uncle.
â
A pang of sorrow struck Markâs heart.
Despite grappling with his turmoil, he summoned every ounce of gentleness, caressing Edwinâs feverish brow before easing the thermometer from its hold.
The verdict was as feared: 39 degrees.
Swiftly, he applied a cooling patch to Edwinâs fiery forehead, beckoning the servant for a glass of tepid water.
With the storm raging, venturing out was a fantasy.
A doctorâs visit, an impossibility.
Arriving had been a feat in itself; no cars braved the streets, the subway had surrendered to the tempest.
Water arrived, glass cradled in anxious hands.
Eyeing his sodden attire, Mark requested a bathrobe.
Once changed, he nestled Edwin close, his hand a comforting rhythm on the childâs back.
âLetâs get that medicine in you before you sleep, champ.
â