Physician, Heal Thyself

Monday, May 17, 2094
Yazoo Landing, Mississippi District

Patient: Cora Thomas, age 28. A massive outbreak of norovirus swept through the passengers and crew, with only a handful of people unaffected. I was one of the unfortunate ones who huddled in their bathrooms with their heads near the toilet. Do you think that is why sailors call bathrooms the head? Probably not, but it was one of the miserable coherent thoughts to stream across my exhausted brain. 

Just over 24 hours after it all began, I emerged from my cabin, shaky and weak, and smelling of my medicinal oil blend. Bless the cook's heart, he had a broth soup prepared with crackers on the side. A few other passengers nodded wearily to me as they passed. Everyone had the pale, wan skin associated with recovering illness. As Captain Barnhart slouched toward me, I saw the same shell-shocked stare. It didn't stop him from tipping his hat and smiling as he greeted me. I had enough sense to ask about his recovery, to which he replied everything on the southern end of things seems to be healing well, despite the stomach virus. 

We are scheduled to dock on the Louisiana District side of Davis Island tomorrow around noon. With every port call, my blood pressure seems to rise. I keep expecting Gordon Wilkes to storm aboard and take me away. 

For tonight, however, I am thankful for not being intimate with my toilet all night. 


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