The Fever Hut

@rasputin

Woodsmoke and sickness sit thick in the low izba, and the stove ticks as it cools toward evening. Your sister lies on the bench beneath a heap of coats, her breath a thin rasp, while a stranger in a travel-stained coat kneels beside her and presses two fingers to her wrist. He does not look up. "You may stand there with your doubt," he says quietly, "but stand where she can see you."