Millie and Betty looked at each other in horror. “Oh, Millie, just pray for me. Pray that I’ll keep my head so I’ll know what to do! Pray!” “Get me some clean sheets so we can lay her down somewhere.” Dear, patient little Fairy lay motionless, except for her eyes - dark pools of suffering which looked pleadingly. She did not scream or cry. She just moaned over and over again one word: “Doe - doe - doe-” (It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.) Everything else on the station was forgotten as the two women fought for the life of the child. Neither of the women was a nurse, but one remembered what they had done when her sister was burned. They laid the child on a clean cot, bound up the burns as well as they could with boric acid bandages, and night and day sat beside her, dripping sterile boric acid solution on the wounds. Lila wouldn’t move from beside the cot, and her tears flowed constantly. “How do we know we’re doing the right thing, Millie?” “Maybe we should change the bandages.” “I’m afraid to. What if infection sets in?” “But we’re giving her penicillin shots. How could it?” “Betty, I don’t even know if we’re giving the right amounts of penicillin for her age. That bothers me.” “Oh, if we could only get her to a doctor. What would you do if this were your child?”
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