The Healer's Wife Part 1 of 7

She was on the porch when he arrived, a sick child in his arms. She didn't recognize the man. He was not of the town, nor was he one of the regular migrant workers who passed by seasonally trailing family behind them as they chased the cycles of harvest up and down the coastline. No, she'd never seen this man before, but she knew why he approached, knew what he carried in his arms, recognize the tight, frightened look on his face.

"He's not here," she said as the man drew close, halting him before he could place foot upon the low step.

He squinted in the sun, gazing up to where she sat in the cool shade. Fine dirt clung to his pants and work boots. It settled like powdered cinnamon upon his face and shoulders, dusted the dark bundle he held in his arms. "She's sick," he said, "my daughter." He held her forward as if to offer proof. Two small feet hung limp below the blanket, gray toes in the morning sunlight. "I was told--"

"It doesn't matter what you were told," said the woman. "He's not here."

The man took a step forward, desperation creeping into his voice. "But he must look. She's sick! She will die!"

The woman sat unmoving in her chair. "I'm sorry. My husband's retired. You must leave."