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St ory Child by Krist ine Kat hryn Rusch I remember t he st ory child as well as I remember t he Abandonment . Now, almost a generat ion lat er, I can' t quit e say what she looked like. But I know what she t aught me, and how hard it was t o learn. * * * * The day she arrived, t he noise was fierce. People were moaning, crying out in t heir delirium. And t he cafet eria was t oo cold. The chill from t he floor - t o- ceiling windows t hat lined t he east ern wall seemed t o cover me, even when I worked wit h pat ient s in t he far back corner of t he room. I t hought t hat t he heat from t heir skin would warm me; t hey were all burning wit h fever, faces flushed or t oo pale, t heir hands shaking wit h weakness. We had had so many unexplained fevers, unknown diseases, and lingering illnesses in t he past t wo years t hat I oft en wondered which would give up first , t he germs or t he people. I knew
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