Chapter 22
The heat came early that week, dry and relentless. It settled over Rosewood like a fever that wouldn’t break. The air carried the scent of dust and sweat, and every breath felt thick enough to chew. People moved more slowly, voices low, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Illness followed close behind.
It began with small things—headaches, dizziness, and a boy fainting in the square.
Then the fevers came, sharp and sudden, leaving the sick shivering in the same heat that burned everyone else.
Mary Anne treated them one at a time, but the numbers kept rising.
The metal frames of the beds scorched her palms. By noon, the place felt more like an oven than a refuge.
She gave up and moved the work to the old gym beside the school.
The roof had caved in at one corner, and sunlight poured through the cracks in the ceiling, bright and merciless.
The floor smelled of mildew and dust, but at least the air moved.
She dragged in tables from the classroom, lined them along the wall, and hung sheets across the broken windows to keep out flies. The townspeople helped her at first, but by the second day, most were too afraid of catching whatever sickness had taken hold. So, she worked alone.
When the fever peaked, she brewed willow bark in a blackened pot.
The bitter smell clung to her clothes. For burns, she split aloe leaves with a knife and spread the cool gel across blistered skin.
For infection, she boiled rags until the water turned gray, then used them anyway. Each treatment felt like a coin toss.
By midafternoon, the gym was full. The sound of coughing echoed under the rafters.
Children whimpered. The old moaned in their sleep.
Mary Anne moved from cot to cot, sleeves rolled to her elbows.
Her hands were red from washing, her fingertips split.
She tied strips of cloth around wounds and poured water over foreheads.
Her body ached, but she kept moving, the rhythm of her work the only thing keeping her upright.
Outside, the heat shimmered across the fields.
Emily stood by the doorway, her face pale. “You need help,” she said.
“I have help,” Mary Anne said. “You’re here.”
“You need more. Harlan’s people won’t come. They say you’re tempting God.”
“If they die in prayer, that’s on him.”
Emily didn’t argue. She carried the next bucket of water without another word.
By evening, a line had formed outside the gym.
Families stood waiting, holding blankets, buckets, and anything that might cool a fever.
Mary Anne worked through the sunset and into the dark.
When the candlelight grew weak, she moved the cots closer together. Her own shirt was soaked through.
At the far end of the room, an old woman named Mrs. Traynor gasped for air. The wound on her leg had turned black around the edges. Mary Anne had cleaned it twice already, but the infection had spread.
She crouched beside her, hands trembling, and studied the leg in the flickering light. “I can cut it,” Mary Anne said quietly. “It might save you.”
The woman’s eyes opened, glassy but clear. “Do it.”
Emily looked over from the doorway. “Mary Anne…”
“She’ll die if I don’t.”
They laid the woman on the table. Emily held her shoulders.
Mary Anne boiled her scalpel in a tin pot over the fire until it glowed faintly.
The smell of metal filled the air. Sweat ran down her back as she began to cut.
The sound was wet and soft, the kind that stayed in the ears long after it ended.
Mrs. Traynor didn’t scream. She bit down on a folded rag and went silent.
When it was over, Mary Anne tied off the wound with strips of cloth and pressed her hands against the bleeding until it slowed.
When Emily finally stepped away, her arms were streaked with red. “You think she’ll make it?”
Mary Anne wiped her face with the back of her hand. “If she does, it’s because she’s too stubborn to die.”
The woman lived through the night. By morning, word had spread. Harlan’s followers gathered near the church steps, their voices sharp with accusation. Mary Anne could hear them even from the gym.
The preacher’s tone carried above the rest, strong and practiced. “She claims to heal without His blessing,” Harlan said. “She cuts the flesh and calls it mercy. That is not medicine; it is defiance.”
People listened as they always did, but Mary Anne kept working. The woman’s fever broke before noon. When she opened her eyes, her first word was water. Mary Anne helped her sit up and spooned the liquid slowly past her lips. The color had returned to her cheeks.
“Witchcraft,” someone whispered near the doorway.
Mary Anne ignored it and poured more water. The woman drank greedily.
Emily glared at the voice and stepped forward. “She’s alive because Mary Anne didn’t quit. You’d all be dead if she had.”
The figure in the doorway turned away without speaking. Mary Anne leaned against the wall. Her arms felt heavy, but her mind stayed sharp. Every success made her a little stronger. Every whisper made her a little colder.
That afternoon, Hale came by with two of his men. He looked worse than the last time she’d seen him. His eyes were red from lack of sleep. “How bad is it?” he asked.
“Worse every day,” she said.
“Do you need supplies?”
“I need belief to stop killing people.”
He gave a tired smile. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”
“You can’t,” she said. “No one can.”
“You’re not making this easy.”
“I don’t have the time to make it easy.”
He nodded. “I’ll post someone at the door. Keep the trouble out.”
When he left, she watched him walk back across the square. The air shimmered around him, bending the light. Inside, the old gym had turned into a furnace. The smell of boiled cloth and human sweat filled every corner. She opened a window, but the heat outside was worse.
By dusk, she had treated fourteen people. Four of them had lived. It was enough to keep her moving. She cleaned her instruments again, the water in the pot turning brown. The sound of bubbling soothed her.
Emily sat nearby, rubbing her hands together. “You think Harlan will come himself?” Emily asked.
“He already has,” Mary Anne said. “Every word he preaches is another knife.”
“They say he called you a witch.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“You don’t care?”
“I care but not enough to stop.”
Emily smiled faintly. “That’s what scares them.”
Mary Anne turned back to her work. She picked up the scalpel, watching the candlelight slide across the blade.
The steel looked almost alive. Outside, the night grew darker than before.
The heat didn’t break, but the air shifted.
The wind carried the scent of rain from somewhere far away.
She stepped to the doorway for a breath of air.
The street was empty. Most of the town slept or prayed.
From the church came a faint hymn, soft and slow.
The melody was one she remembered from childhood, though the words had changed.
The sound rose and fell with the wind, fading into the distance.
She looked up at the clear sky. Without the hum of electricity, the stars burned brighter than she had ever seen them.
They looked alive, trembling, endless. For a moment, she forgot the heat, sickness, and noise.
The world felt vast again, untouched by prayer or medicine.
Emily joined her in the doorway. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It never used to look like this,” Mary Anne said.
“Maybe we never looked up.”
“Maybe we didn’t have to.”
Emily sighed. “Do you think about leaving?”
Mary Anne shook her head. “No. If I go, they die.”
“Even the ones who call you a witch?”
“Especially them.”
Emily smiled again. “You really think you can save everyone?”
“No, but I can try until I can’t.”
“You should sleep.”
“In a while.”
When Emily left, Mary Anne went back inside.
The last candle flickered low, its flame trembling in the heat.
The woman on the cot murmured in her sleep, breathing slowly and steadily.
She crouched beside her, checking the bandage one last time.
The skin looked cleaner, the edges dry. She tied it tighter and sat back.
The room was still. Only the sound of crickets outside broke the silence.
She leaned against the wall and let her head rest for a moment.
The fire in the tin pot hissed softly. The stars outside poured light through the broken windows, laying patterns on the floor.
For the first time in days, she felt something close to peace.
The sickness would come again, and Harlan would preach louder, but for the moment, the woman lived.
Mary Anne watched the sky through the cracks above her. The stars blinked without rhythm, alive and indifferent. She whispered to herself so quietly that it barely made a sound. “I’ll keep doing this. No matter what they call it.”
Her hands ached, and her throat was raw, but the words steadied her. The fire sputtered. The room dimmed. The stars kept burning, cold and endless. She promised herself she would keep practicing medicine, even if faith turned the whole town against her.