A soul claimed by Death had been allowed to remain in its body a little longer. The body lay on a clinic bed.
The bedding was rumpled. The person who had lain there before hadn't bothered to straighten it before leaving. The twisted folds pressed uncomfortably into his back, and the deep creases seemed to harbor plague germs and faint, unwashed rust-colored stains. Still, it was better than the hard boards.
He tried to lift himself slightly and smooth out the blanket, but a violent coughing fit interrupted him. A pain like a wound being forced open spread through his chest. His hand clenched around the nearest thing it could grab and yanked, wrinkling the blanket even further.
Something thicker and stickier than saliva flew out with the cough. His hand moved to wipe it away by instinct, and he felt the familiar wet, viscous smear. A vivid red streak appeared in his palm, fueling his feverish heat and anxiety.
Now and then, a shadow carrying bottles and jars passed behind the white curtain, stirring a flicker of hope that soon faded.
By now, repeated deteriorations in his condition had worn away his expectations of herbal remedies. The physician had already said plainly that improvement was unlikely. It was less a matter of treatment than of the instinct to survive—to believe he could still struggle on a little longer.
The discomfort in his lungs kept him from sleeping or staying fully awake. He could only close his eyes and try to ignore the similar coughs rising and falling next door, letting his awareness drift temporarily away from reality.
But that only sharpened his hearing. Amid the coughing, he could make out suppressed footsteps, some lighter and some heavier, pacing between the curtains. Every so often, they grew louder and quicker.