Patrick shook his head. “Please come now. Something isn’t right. Her back has been bothering her all week, but this is different.” He explained how his mother fell while lugging a sack of flour that was too heavy for her.

“I’ll come,” the old doctor said with a sigh of resignation. Patrick sent an apologetic nod to Mrs. Phalen, still sitting at the dinner table with the feast laid out before her. This surely wasn’t her first meal spoiled by an inconvenient call for a doctor.

Half an hour later, Patrick paced in his parlor, straining to hear what was being said behind Birdie’s closed bedroom door while Mrs. O’Shea’s knitting needles clicked in a reassuring rhythm. They’d both been booted out of the sickroom when Dr. Phalen arrived, but this was taking an awful long time simply to diagnose back pain.

At last the door opened, and they both stood. Dr. Phalen looked even older than usual as he approached them.

“I’m sorry, Patrick lad, but it looks like your ma has tetanus. Lockjaw has already set in, which is why she’s having a hard time speaking. Muscle spasms are holding her back in that contorted shape. I’m afraid there is nothing that can be done.”

“How long will it last?” he asked.

The doctor’s eyes darkened with sympathy. “It’s only going to get worse in the next few days. And then she will die, lad. I’m afraid there is no cure for this form of tetanus.”

No. Patrick shook his head. No, he couldn’t believe this.

Mrs. O’Shea crossed herself and collapsed onto a chair, but the doctor continued speaking.

“It’s the cut on her arm that did her in,” he said. “I took the bandages off and examined the wound. That’s where the infection got in, and it takes a while to manifest. She said she fell against a rusty wheel when she lugged that sack of flour. I’m sorry, Patrick.”

It was inconceivable that his mother would die because of a cut on her arm. It was only a scratch! He would find another doctor, someone who could give him some hope. He stared blankly ahead, his gaze catching on the cake Birdie had brought home today. She had been well enough to bake earlier today, and now Dr. Phalen said she was on her deathbed?

The doctor and Mrs. O’Shea continued talking about how to make Birdie comfortable, but it sounded like their voices came from a hundred miles away.

“I think it would be best if you called for a priest,” Dr. Phalen advised, and Mrs. O’Shea agreed.

Patrick collapsed on the sofa. His mother’s cheerful light was going to be snuffed out because she had lugged a sack of flour too heavy for her. No hope. Was there anything worse than being robbed of hope?