Black spots float in front of me, sliding from side to side.
A dry, crusty pull on my chin requires inspection.
I raise my hand from the hard surface in search of my face.
My breaths come and go with a struggle—uneven timing, some short, some long. A harsh buzz fills my ears until the touch of my finger meets my chin.
Blood.
I sweep my tongue around my mouth, finding gnawed flesh along the inside of my cheek.
I did this to myself.
Another nocturnal seizure.
There’s no pattern now, nothing for me to rely on. Nothing I can rely on. No medicine.
My body is searching for the medicine.
It’s not there.
It’s fighting for more.
My body is fighting the disease that can’t be fought.
Someone is going to notice.
It’s going to happen while I’m awake.
What will the SS do when they see the worst of what happens to me?
Hunger, dehydration, and exhaustion are all causes.
But fear is the worst of them all.
Must remain calm.
Count breaths.
Count seconds.
“Get up! You’re going to the fields,” someone shouts.
Fields. Fields. Fields.
We’re in isolation, but the fields are also isolated.
I go to the field to dig holes. All day.
For what?
It doesn’t matter. I need to move.
I push through the pain, clawing at the wooden bunk to ease myself down. For a breath, I pause and glance at the man beside me.
He’s shaking with shivers, moaning in his sleep. He’s still asleep. Not following directions.
Our indications look alike, but he’s ill with Typhus. He’s waiting to die, like dozens of others in this block.
