Now, I’m a whisper. A remnant of times gone by. A footprint on the beach. Now, I’m about to be washed away. Now, I’m fading like the last note of a symphony. I’m an echo, nothing more.

Now, before I fade, I want to do—

But it’s too late. The time for doing things was over long ago, for me.

Now, I dream of that night when I sleep. (We do sleep, you know. Well, actually, it’s more like we never wake up.) I dream of a night spent in an old, Victorian house in Boston. I dream of the housekeeper and the butler. Now, I rarely dream of my parents. My sister fills my sleep instead.

Now, she calls my name. “Meg,” she cries. “Megan. Please—” She never finishes her sentence. The fever takes her from me all over again, any time I’m foolish enough to fall asleep now.

I dream, now, of the fever inside me, the silent demon that crept up on my family and caught us unawares, the slow and painful killer of us all. Now, I feel my body on fire, an invisible, deadly fire that can’t be extinguished with a bucket of water.

Now, I dream of my death.

Now, I’m drifting. Blowing on the wind. I have no place in any world. I used to have a place in the old, Victorian house in Boston. I used to have parents, as well, and a sister, and a butler and housekeeper. I used to be so very full of life. I used to be real.

But now?

Now, you can’t see me. You can’t hear or notice or feel me. Now, I am utterly alone.

Now, I’m a whisper. A remnant of times gone by. A footprint on the beach. Now, I’m about to be washed away. Now, I’m fading, fading, fading. Now, I’m










gone.