The verdict was as feared: 39 degrees.

Swiftly, he applied a cooling patch to Edwin's fiery forehead, beckoning the servant for a glass of tepid water.

With the storm raging, venturing out was a fantasy.

A doctor's visit, an impossibility.

Arriving had been a feat in itself; no cars braved the streets, the subway had surrendered to the tempest.

Water arrived, glass cradled in anxious hands.

Eyeing his sodden attire, Mark requested a bathrobe. Once changed, he nestled Edwin close, his hand a comforting rhythm on the child's back.

"Let's get that medicine in you before you sleep, champ."

In his haze, Edwin barely registered the movement.

Mark gently placed the pill against Edwin's lips and observed as he swallowed it.

Water followed, guiding the medicine on its vital mission.

But as Edwin settled back, the harsh truth remained; medicine wasn't a magic wand. Fever ebbed and surged, playing cruel games with the little boy.

In his worst moments, Edwin sought solace in Mark's steadfast presence, his small hand finding his, calling him "great uncle" in his delirium. It tore at Mark, each hot, restless shift. Compelled by worry, he fetched a warm towel, dabbing away at the heat that seemed to radiate from Edwin's every pore.

Time crawled; thirty minutes saw the fever relent, if only just.

But it clung stubbornly above 38 degrees.

The night stretched on.

Sleep was a stranger to Mark. Instead, he renewed his vigil every thirty minutes, the damp towel his constant companion. His own body protested, weariness seeping into his bones, but he paid it no mind.

The servant, witnessing his silent struggle, offered softly, “Let me take over, Mr. Evans. You need to rest."

Mark shook his head, declining the offer.

He was resolute, determined to nurse Edwin himself.