The child is sick. Pale, listless, and not yet one year old. His mother holds him close, feeds him spoonfuls of syrup, vials of bitter drops, and all the milk he’ll take. But that’s not much. With the strength he has left he turns his head away from her and gasps. Soft, small, weak noises, from a soft, small, weak body. And when his mother lifts his hand up to the light, she sees the outline of bones like the watermarks on paper money.
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