Skye woke up startled. Her sister was crying. Like every night around this time. Probably had to be brought to the toilet.
Groaning, Skye buried her face back in her pillow. She wanted to sleep.
When the howling had not stopped after five minutes, although the voices of their parents sounded from the other side, she got up sleepily and lumbered into the room of Salome.
"What is going on here?" She growled tired. "Can´t she now be quiet?"
"Oh, she is sick."Her mother replied pitiful. "Really hot forehead and ice-cold hands."
Muttering Skye returned to her room.
But the hubbub continued.
Eventually, however, the noises suggested that their mother was going to take Salome to a doctor. Then there was silence.
Skye fell asleep.
The next day, however, seemed to have brought no improvement.
Doctor Carter was present, one of the primary care physicians around. Skye's mother knelt beside the bed, her eyes were red and she seemed as if she had not come to rest all night.
"What's going on?", The young woman asked with increasing restlessness.
Her mother sobbed and her father put his arms around her.
"Your sister is very ill." The African said gloomily.
"What? Why, what's wrong with her?"
"We do not know."
"For some reason her organs fail to work." Doctor Carter said regretfully.
Skye's mouth fell open in horror. "B-but you can help her, right?"
The doctor took off his gold-rimmed glasses and rubbed his nose.
"... I'm really very sorry."
"We'll find someone who can help her!" Skye's father Joseph said to her mother.
She sobbed again and nodded.
"I'm disconsolent." Sighed Carter. "But the time this´d take is probably no longer left to you."
"W-w-what do you m-mean?", Skye's mother managed to say, her face stone-grey.
Carter suddenly looked much older than he actually was.
"... I ... give her ... less than 24 hours."
The asphalt began to glow slightly as Zarathos stepped onto it and a faint whispering rustle ran through the leaves of the trees and shrubs all around, as if nature itself would welcome the angel of justice.
It was chilly. Crickets chirped sporadically a lonely song.
Zarathos put his head back to look at the stars, small diamonds in black velvet, and inhaled deeply the scent of the night through his skeletonized nostrils.
If he had had lips, he would have smiled. His fire burned smoothly and evenly in bright blue, peaceful as his mind.
He closed the door of the house, that Johnny, Nadya and Danny shared at the moment and walked relaxed over to his motorcycle, which welcomed him with a faint roar of the engine.
With the elegance of years of practice he swung his leg on the wide saddle and kicked the starter. The enthusiastic roar of the engine shook the night.
Flames blazed and marked the way the Ghost Rider had taken.
Upstairs in the house Danny climbed back into the bed, from which he had fallen, as the Rider had mounted his vehicle in the courtyard below.
"Accursed bone head! That I'll never get used to!" Chuntered the son of the devil and pulled the duvet up under his nose.