In his haze, Edwin barely registered the movement.
Mark gently placed the pill against Edwinâs lips and observed as he swallowed it.
Water followed, guiding the medicine on its vital mission.
But as Edwin settled back, the harsh truth remained; medicine wasnât a magic wand.
Fever ebbed and surged, playing cruel games with the little boy.
In his worst moments, Edwin sought solace in Markâs steadfast presence, his small hand finding his, calling him âgreat uncleâ in his delirium.
It tore at Mark, each hot, restless shift.
Compelled by worry, he fetched a warm towel, dabbing away at the heat that seemed to radiate from Edwinâs every pore.
Time crawled; thirty minutes saw the fever relent, if only just.
But it clung stubbornly above 38 degrees.
The night stretched on.
Sleep was a stranger to Mark.
Instead, he renewed his vigil every thirty minutes, the damp towel his constant companion.
His own body protested, weariness seeping into his bones, but he paid it no mind.
The servant, witnessing his silent struggle, offered softly, âLet me take over, Mr.
Evans.
You need to rest.
â
Mark shook his head, declining the offer.
He was resolute, determined to nurse Edwin himself.
By some miracle, Edwinâs fever dwindled.
Mark was spent.
He didnât even summon the energy for a shower, drifting to sleep precariously at the bedâs edge.
Dawn peeked in.
The rain had bid its farewell, and the city seemed renewed in its wake.
In the hush of the childrenâs room, the father and sonâs breathing melded in harmony.
Stirring to consciousness, Edwin studied the figure beside him.
Markâs rhythmic breathing signaled slumber.
Close as they were, Edwin could discern the shadow of new growth on his fatherâs face.
Mark lay still, a testament to his exhaustion.
A realization dawned on Edwin.
Had his father kept vigil all night?
His lips pressed together in contemplation.
Though lingering resentment resided, for now, he cast it aside, his heart softening towards Mark.
Edwinâs fingers brushed against Markâs hand.