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Chicken Soup I’ve been taking care of her for days—spoon-feeding her soup, wiping her nose, bringing her water—whatever it takes for her to get well. She’s my baby and I always take care of my babies. Sometimes she cries—tries to speak. When she does, I shush her. Tell her she needs to rest, conserve her energy. After a couple of minutes or so, she usually calms down. Logic always triumphs over selfish impetuosity. Each morning and each night I loosen the bounds holding her to the bed, and massage her hands and feet to get the blood flowing again. Though I know it hurts her dearly, it must be done. To lose mobility over so trivial a thing as a cold would be a colossal waste of a good slave. Remove the bounds, change her gag—it’s only hygienic—rinse and repeat. Soon she will get better and there will be no more need for any of it. She knows this. I know this. Again—logic! Maria is her name, but I call her Baby Girl. My sweet little Baby Girl. I hope she gets better soon. |
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