When I was treating Georges this morning, Angelo walked in the tent.

  "Why are you here?" I questioned, pressing a towel on Georges's forehead.

  Angelo looked down, "Lawrence told me to come here. He said it's warm in here and that I'd like it quite a bit. He also said that I need to learn a little bit of medical things from you if you're ever the one who gets sick."

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  I began showing him how to treat food sickness with the few materials we had. I'm not sure if it was right for him to look to me to get medical advice from, since I'm not even sure that any of this is going to work. I would feel awful if I gave him false information.

  "Is he going to make it?" Angelo asked, his eyes falling on his sleeping friend.

  I wanted to hug him so very badly, "I'm not sure. I want him to live, but he doesn't look too good. All will be known tomorrow. I am sorry, dear Angelo."

  I am now sure that we are another man short. I want to cry in frustration because of how he will go out. There is nothing more I can do.