Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night. Barbara J. Taylor
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“My point exactly.” He spread the ointment onto the remaining pieces of linen and placed them on the areas where the wounds were open. “Never heard a singing baby before or since.” Once all of the burned areas had been treated, Doc Rodham layered cotton over the linen cloths and wrapped bandages over the batting. “That’s how I knew you were special.”
Alice Harris called from the doorway, and the doctor excused himself. “I don’t want to push myself on anyone,” she said softly, handing him two hot water bottles. “A sick room’s no place for folks that ain’t family, excepting you, of course, and the preacher when he comes. Holler if you need.” She disappeared down the hallway.
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