Bridge and Marco’s stories were rather alike in their stories. Towards the end, anyway. At the beginning, they were different. But they were the only ones that knew each other before, so the end was more similar than any other.

Brigde was often the one rushing forward in things, so her start is first.

She had dirty blonde hair, a color Florence called (though rather fondly) dishwater blonde. Her eyes, however, were named (by Florence, at least) spring leaf. A bright green.

She’d been born in a rather rougher part of town. Poorer. Which was why her folks couldn’t afford a doctor.

She was only two when it happened, so her parents were fleeting memories.

Her father smelled of cigar smoke, her mother of beautiful perfume.

She did, however, remember the Fever.

It was horrible. Most lived, some didn’t.

She remembered being sick. It was hot, then cold, then hot. Always sweaty. Vision was blurry.

But she got better. Mama and Papa were some of the unlucky ones.