When Jorgenson woke up in the middle of the night, his daughter was dead.
He looked around observing that he was inside an enormous beige-coloured tent. The only thing that separated him from the rest of the world weeping in chorus was nothing more than a cloth sheet.
His daughter was dead.
His small, pink, crying bundle was dead and forever gone. Jorgenson had lost the only real love of his life.
He burst into tears.
The tears came out in sobs at first, but then he was overtaken by shudders and a convulsive cough.
Virginia was dead, dead, dead. She was no more, his little love no longer was.
Jorgenson closed his eyes as tight as he could, but even when they reopened, she was still dead.
Standing above him now however, was a nurse.
She was holding one hand over his forehead and appeared to be checking for fever but actually, it was a caress of some kind.
Mary – he thought to himself.
Forgive me Mary; I didn’t save our daughter.