The Feverish Boy
Monday had begun like any other.
The scent of fresh coffee drifted through the school hallways while backpacks scraped against the polished floors, accompanied by the echo of children’s laughter bouncing off the walls. Marian loved those first hours of the morning, when a gentle sense of order still reigned before the energy of thirty elementary school children burst loose like a swarm.
Yet something felt different that day.
Through the classroom window, she could see a sky swollen with strange gray clouds, heavy with the promise of a storm that hadn’t appeared in the forecast.
Inside, the children settled into their seats with the familiar distractions of eight-year-olds. Some tossed folded paper balls at one another. Others hummed snippets of popular songs. Two boys were already arguing about who would play goalkeeper during recess.
That was when she noticed Santiago.
Seated in the third row, he wasn’t joining in the chatter. His head rested on his desk, his arms hanging limply at his sides as though they had suddenly lost all strength.
“Santi, are you tired?” Marian asked, walking over to him.
The boy barely lifted his face.
Sweat beaded across his pale skin. His lips were dry and cracked, and his eyes had a cloudy, unfocused sheen.
He parted his lips as if he wanted to answer, but only a muffled groan escaped him before his forehead dropped heavily back onto the desk.
The noise in the classroom faded.
Some of the children watched with concern. Others stared with the unsettling curiosity children often have when they sense something serious is happening.
“Everyone stay calm,” Marian said firmly, though a chill crawled down her spine.
She knelt beside him and grasped his shoulders.
“Santiago. Look at me. Can you hear me?”
No answer.
His breathing was shallow, little more than a faint, broken whistle.
Then—
Nothing.
His chest stopped moving.
“Go to the office! Hurry!” she shouted to the student closest to the door.
The girl bolted from the room.
Time seemed to melt.
Marian eased Santiago onto the floor and placed her hands over his small chest.
She began chest compressions exactly as she had learned during first aid training.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Her voice trembled, but she couldn’t stop.
The rest of the class crowded around them, their eyes wide with fear.
“Give him space! Back up!” she yelled.
She tilted Santiago’s head back, pinched his nose shut, and sealed her mouth over his.
She breathed into him once.
Twice.
On the third breath, the boy convulsed violently.
A harsh cough erupted from deep inside his chest, spraying a warm mixture of saliva and blood directly into her face.
Before she could pull away, some of the thick fluid splashed into her mouth.
The metallic taste hit her tongue instantly.
Rust.
Blood.
Decay.
Nausea climbed into her throat, but she forced herself to continue.
More compressions.
Another breath.
Suddenly, Santiago’s eyes snapped open.
For a fleeting moment, relief flooded through her.
Then she truly looked at him.
Those weren’t the eyes of a child waking from unconsciousness.
His pupils were unnaturally dilated.
Black.
Fixed.
Empty.
No recognition.
No fear.
No Santiago.
A guttural growl escaped his throat as his body arched upward, as though something inside him was trying to claw its way out.
Marian barely managed to hold him down.
“It’s okay, Santi! It’s okay!” she said, though she was no longer speaking to him.
She was trying to reassure herself.
At that moment, another teacher rushed into the classroom, drawn by the screams.
“What happened?”
“He collapsed! He wasn’t breathing!” Marian answered, never taking her eyes off the boy whose face had become a mask of fever and rage.
The other teacher instinctively stepped backward.
Fear flashed across her features.
Outside, the hallway had grown louder.
Parents calling their children.
Running footsteps.
Somewhere nearby, a baby crying.
The entire school seemed to hum with the same terrible premonition.
Two teachers finally carried Santiago toward the nurse’s office.
Marian remained seated on the floor.
Her hands trembled.
Her throat burned.
She desperately wanted to wash her face.
To spit out the metallic taste that still coated her mouth.
But she couldn’t move.
The whispers of her students eventually pulled her back to reality.
“Miss... is he going to die?”
The question came with the cruel innocence only children possess.
Marian inhaled slowly and forced a smile.
“No,” she said softly.
“Everything is going to be okay.”
She didn’t believe a word of it.
When she was finally alone, she switched on the old radio she occasionally used during art lessons.
She wanted noise.
Music.
Anything normal.
Instead, a trembling voice filled the room.
“Breaking news: Hospitals across the city are reporting unusual cases involving patients who, after entering a severe febrile state, have displayed violent attacks against medical staff. Authorities urge the public to remain calm but strongly advise avoiding direct contact with bodily fluids from infected individuals. We repeat: avoid direct contact...”
Marian switched the radio off.
Silence swallowed the classroom.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
Slowly, she touched her lips.
Still damp.
She remembered the warmth of Santiago’s cough against her mouth.
Inside her, doubt began to spread.
What she didn’t know was that, at that very moment, the seed of her condemnation had already taken root.
