The rain pelted outside. It became harsh against the old cab glass. Though the doctor was not inside warm. He was in the storm, holding the gold cane tightly "I told you not to bring the sick here"

Though, the man seemed to not waver. His hands shaking "please.. Sir.. We need your help. My daughter she's.. Of the biblical sickness"

The cart was just around the mud path. A cover over the back, covering whatever women lay inside "She's a witch.. We have no help. We need yours..."

The doctor glared through his mask, pacing to the wagon "So she is sick?" A grumble escaped his lips muffled by the mask. Even still Blackwood took a cotton sheet over his covered nose