In the quiet town of Lakeshore, where the winds off the lake bring a bitter chill, Dr. Emily Harper works tirelessly in the infectious diseases ward. She’s known as a master of her craft, though I’ve never seen her face without a mask and protective goggles. Emily is an infectious disease specialist—brilliant, clinical, and far from comforting. Throughout my daughter’s treatment, she never once offered the soft words that might have eased the fear tearing through my heart.
She speaks in numbers, in facts stripped bare of emotion.
*”White blood cells at 12,”* she says, her eyes fixed on the chart.
*”Is that good?”* I whisper, barely breathing.
*”Lower than before, but still high. And Sophie’s fontanelle is sunken. She’s dehydrated,”* she replies flatly, not looking up.
*”Is it dangerous?”* My voice shakes.
*”I’ll prescribe something to stabilise her,”* she clips.
Her words are sharp, precise, like a scalpel’s cut. The parents in this ward hound her with questions, desperate for reassurance. She answers, but every syllable feels measured, filtered through caution—as if any misstep could be turned against her. Emily chooses her words with surgical accuracy, each one backed by test results. She just wants to treat, silently, without the weight of conversation. But that’s not how it works.
I don’t know if I like her. I have no choice but to trust her—my Sophie’s life is in her hands. She makes no effort to be kind, to soothe my panic or offer empty hope. But maybe that’s not her job. Her battle is against infection, not my fear.
Behind fogged goggles, her eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted. Maybe she’s been crying. I stop asking questions. I can see for myself that Sophie’s improving. Two days ago, my girl lay unconscious—now she sits up, grinning as she bites into an apple. Emily checks her over, listens to her lungs, winks at her.
*”Well done, Sophie,”* she murmurs.
She says nothing to me. I don’t ask.
In the afternoon, a one-year-old boy, Noah, is rushed in. His condition is critical, nearly hopeless. Emily grabs her phone at once, calling the regional hospital. Lakeshore’s small infectious unit has no intensive care. Noah needs help they can’t give, but the response is cold: *neuroinfection, no beds, deal with it yourselves.*
Her shift ends at three. She has a husband, children, a home waiting. But she doesn’t leave. Noah’s too poorly, so she stays. She fights with the regional hospital over the phone, demanding a neurologist, a rare medication. She argues with her husband, who insists she come home—*their* children need her, Noah isn’t hers.
The nurses fall quiet. They’re used to the bosses clocking out at three, the ward relaxing into informality. But Emily’s still here.
Noah and his mother, Charlotte, are in the next bay. The walls are thin, and I hear everything. Charlotte phones friends, begging them to pray—specific prayers, the right ones. *Go to church, ask the vicar. His prayers reach God faster.*
That evening, Emily steps into their room. The medication Noah needs isn’t stocked—they’ll have to buy it. She lists the drugs: *”Mexidol”* among them. Charlotte explodes.
*”Our taxes pay for this! Treat him! Corruption everywhere—I’ll sue you!”*
Emily says nothing. Walks out. I know why. We bought *”Mexidol”* for Sophie too.
Charlotte calls her husband, sobbing about the *heartless doctor*, demanding he bring holy water, a cross. I have spare vials of *”Mexidol.”* Against rules, I slip into the corridor, searching for Emily.
I find her in the staff room, back turned, rattling off a list of drugs to her husband over the phone.
*”Daniel, now. Bring them. The kids can manage twenty minutes—”* Her voice wavers with exhaustion.
Her husband shouts on the other end.
*”Daniel, the chemist closes at ten. Call me a bad mother later. Just get the—”*
*”Here,”* I say, holding out the vials. *”Mexidol. You don’t need to buy it.”*
She startles, turns. For the first time, I see her without the mask. She’s beautiful. Exhausted, but beautiful.
*”Thank you,”* she murmurs, then into the phone: *”Never mind Mexidol—we’ve got it.”*
I slip a twenty-pound note into her coat pocket.
*”Are you mad? Don’t!”* She grabs my wrist.
*”It’s not for you,”* I say. *”It’s for Noah.”*
She looks down.
*”Thank you,”* she whispers—then corrects herself. *”Thank you.”*
*”You,”* I say, and leave.
That night, Noah worsens. Half-asleep, I hear Emily’s quiet commands—which drip to use, how to break the fever. Underneath it all, Charlotte’s prayers hum like static.
When Sophie fell ill, everyone had advice. Eighty-five percent said to pray, recited verses, urged confession, lighting candles. *”A mother’s prayer pulls children from the depths,”* they said. Five percent pushed alternatives—homeopathy, acupuncture, healers. Ten percent were pragmatic: *”Find better doctors. Go private. The NHS is broken.”*
By dawn, Noah’s better. His fever breaks. He sleeps peacefully. Charlotte, too, finally rests—her snores drift through the wall. Emily hasn’t slept at all.
At nine, her new shift begins. She checks on Sophie first.
*”White blood cells at nine,”* she says.
*”Thank you,”* I reply.
*”It’s good. The inflammation’s going down.”*
*”Yes. I know.”*
I ask nothing else. My heart aches for her. Mask and goggles back on, her eyes still bloodshot. She moves on to the next patient.
At three, her shift ends. Noah’s recovered—smiling, eating. Before leaving, Emily stops by their bay, checking him one last time. I hear her coax gently as she listens to his chest.
Then Charlotte’s phone rings. A shriek of joy:
*”THE PRAYERS WORKED! NOAH’S HEALED!”*
I watch through the window as Emily walks away. Her steps drag, as if she’s poured every ounce of strength into this place. She’s a brilliant doctor. A woman of steel. An angel, if you believe in such things.
She’s the one who defeated Noah’s illness. Destroyed it with knowledge, skill, and antibiotics. Now she walks home—empty-handed, without thanks.
Just part of the job.
Prayers didn’t save him. She did.
