My mother was bending over me, looking me in the eyes, telling me to hold on. She did not fear that she would catch the disease; our whole family was dead, and perhaps she wanted to die too.
"Don't die!" she whispered, holding me close. But my breath was rattling, and I could not speak.
"I can't help it," I whispered at last. She looked at me again, and knew that this was the end.
So I focused on the one hope I had left: that the physician would have one last bottle of the cure left, to save me: one bottle, although he had announced that his stocks were much depleted. One bottle ...
Enough to save me.