First OC of this series - I'll have more of a blurb about her at the end of this chapter :)
6. Dora
Benjamin Wyatt. That was the name of the first baby born in Paradise. After ten hours of labour, blood, and trying everything imaginable to avoid a crude Caesarean section, the wailing kid was finally born and the mother was relatively healthy and sane of mind.
And Dora was tired. Very, very tired. She may have been named after Metrodora, but that didn't mean that the eighteen year old girl had the same adeptness for women's health as the female Ancient Greek physician.
Dr. Crane did praise her skill, though, and he had been one of the best Internists in North America, so she must have at least been an average obstetrician.
After a quarter-mile walk from the Infirmary, Dora reached her cabin situated in the meadow. While the trees may have kept her safer from any attackers, the density of the forest gave her a feeling of claustrophobia. She never had claustrophobia before the Maze trials, but now it haunted her.
Anyways, Dora had opted for one of the cabins built in the meadow, and as a Guild Leader, she got first pick. Most of the Guild Leaders lived in the same row of cabins, actually, which was nice. She enjoyed passing by Sonya and Harriet on her walk to Central in the morning. And she enjoyed poking fun at Sonya when she walked back to her cabin in the morning after spending the night at her boyfriend's cabin.
(That's what she got for having an older boyfriend, as far as Dora was concerned.)
However, Dora didn't think she would have the energy to get up the next morning, because the moment her body hit her thin mattress, she was asleep.
And the memories followed.
She is five years old, and she wakes up in a stuffy, crowded, acrid-smelling tent. She can't stand it, so she exits, and hopes that maybe today is the day she breathes in fresh air.
No such luck. Humid, searingly hot air invades her nostrils, burns her lungs. She looks down and sees her father passed out in front of the tent. The man was too drunk the night before to even crawl into his cot.
She may only be five, but she knows one thing with certainty: she hates alcohol. Moonshine. Hooch. Whatever the adults call it, she is certain that it will steal her father from her before the sun flares come back.
Not that that would be worse than living in their small, filthy encampment nestled in the Laurentian Mountains. Between the mediocre moonshiners (a handful of people have already suffered at the hand of methanol poisoning) and the murky water, the place is a hell on Earth.
However, when her nostrils finally adjust to the hot air, she smells something familiar. Boiling oil. Potatoes.
She races to the central fire pit and nearly squeals in joy when she sees the sight before her.
Several of the adults - some more hungover than others - frying potatoes and reducing chicken broth to gravy. Children tearing open packages of cheese curds.
Her mother is in the middle of the throng, and she smiles tiredly when she catches sight of her daughter.
"Ah, Mirela! Good morning. We received cheese curds from Montreal because they don't spoil as quickly," her mother explains in French. She's not sure how she knows this, but the language seems so natural to her ears. "So we decided to make poutine. You kids deserve to taste it."
She nods excitedly and goes to help the other kids with opening packages of cheese curds and handing out bowls and cups.
It is late morning by the time everyone has their serving of poutine and her stomach is growling noisily, but she savours all of the flavours in the simple and traditional dish. It brings a sense of normalcy to her hectic life.
A loud knock on Dora's door woke her up and she lazily stumbled out of bed with an irritated grumble.
She was a bit grateful for the interruption, though. A week after that event, the darts had come flying down, and she would have hated for her dream to turn into a nightmare.
With a tired grunt, Dora opened her door and scowled at the person that had knocked.
"What is it, Minho?" she mumbled. "I don't have the time or energy for your stupidly earned injuries."
Minho raised his eyebrows in amusement and held out his palm to show the key he was holding. It was Dora's key to the numbing agents cabinet. She felt her glare turn into a shocked gape. Dora never forgot her key.
"Clint said you left it behind and asked me to bring it to you," he explained with the same look of amusement.
Dora sighed heavily and grabbed the key. "Thanks," she grumbled. "And stop looking at me like that. Or else."
"Or else what?"
"Or else next time you need me to cauterize a wound, I'll miss."
Minho let out a displeased grunt, but he had a faint smile on his face as he sarcastically muttered, "Ouch. That really hurt me."
"Not as much as that hot knife is going to hurt you."
"Good night, Dora."
"Bon nuit," Dora mumbled in reply.
Minho stopped as he was turning to walk away from her and gave her a quizzical look. "What did you say?"
"I said 'good night,'" Dora snapped nervously. "Now get off my lawn, you meddling kid."
Minho rolled his eyes and lazily waved goodbye as he turned to walk two cabins to the left to his place.
Dora close the door and cursed her memories. They always muddled her thought processes at the worst times.
Okay. So, as you read, Dora is named after Metrodora. She was born in Montreal, and she was the only Immune in her family. Her main area of expertise is human biology and epidemiology.
Don't forget to leave a review! Here's a sneak peek of the next chapter, our second leader of the Medics:
So that was how Clint found himself cooped up inside, on a perfectly sunny day, managing a rather crude distillery with Dr. Teague watching him closely.
"That's it..." Dr. Teague encouraged quietly. "Perfect. You'd think you've been doing this for your whole life!"
Clint snorted and said, "You could say that."
Dr. Teague's face fell as he realized he had made a poor choice of words.