2. Well, I might call you Doctor.

[bestsir]

Who: Harry Goodsir and OPEN
What: Doctor's hours
Where: Harry's cabin, around town
When: Anytime during October, early November
Warnings: TBD

It's taken some weeks—including the awful voices and even, ironically, the words of Cornelius Hickey—for Goodsir to finally act on advice he'd given to Edward Little when they'd first arrived.

He starts by placing a notice on the board. Then he starts scavenging the town for all the medical supplies he can find, consolidating a store of them in his cabin. What he does manage to find, in combination with the contents of his surgeon's chest, isn't nearly as much as he would like, but it will do.

He has learned much, these last few weeks. That disease and infection is caused not by miasma, by tiny animalcules that may be spread by various forms of contact, and that wounds must be kept clean—disinfected—thus averting festering and gangrene. That there are compounds in food that keep the body healthy, and that not all foods contain those compounds. He tries not to dwell on the lives he might have saved with that knowledge on the expedition, and to focus on the here and now. As he said to Little: to live, and do what good he can.

And to try not to let his hatred of Cornelius Hickey consume him.

Comments

[bestsir]

"Vaccination—oh! Inoculation, of course." The only one that Goodsir knows of is, of course, Jenner's famous smallpox experiment, and he immediately latches on to the implications of La'an's words.

"Inoculations against tuberculosis and more. Imagine." He beams for a moment, enthralled by the idea, before remembering that he's got a patient to see to.

"Well—it may be bronchitis, or some manner of pneumonia. With luck those medicines will see to it." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry that—I must seem a terribly primitive practitioner to you and many of the others."

[rescapee]

It's almost as if they're speaking two different dialects, divided by a massive gap in time, but they're managing well enough. Things would be much worse if he were from even earlier in humanity's history.

"I wouldn't say primitive," she corrects, her tone much kinder than she would have expected when she first arrived. There's something about this man that's soothing her irritation even as her chest aches and her body feels as heavy as lead. "You can't help the era you were born into any more than I can."

[bestsir]

Goodsir smiles and ducks his head a little. "That's kind of you to say," he says, "and you are right, of course. I am trying, but sometimes I feel quite overwhelmed." He pauses, remembering something, and goes back to his supplies. "Here—this, I believe, will alleviate the cough and prevent further irritation on top of the infection." He hands her a bottle of cough syrup.