I.

I don't know what I am to do: already, the spotted fever has killed thousands of people, and has sickened countless more: the city and neighboring towns/villages are fraught with panic over reports of more cases of this "spotted fever", which continues to rule our lives ...

Already have lost one child, Albertino, who was my baby boy, to this spotted fever; the girls, Maria and Consuela, haven't fallen sick to it yet, but what's to say that they won't?  I have been pestering the medicine men and healers to give us something to protect us from catching the disease.

My neighbor, Guadalupe, has lost her other children; she is now without any children.  She is beside herself with grief: I hear her moaning and wailing cries, and it makes me want to cry right along with her.  I don't think she will ever get over it ...

II.

The death count continues to rise.  More and more people (mainly children and babies) seem to be falling ill.  Seems that there is a real problem on our hands; the doctors can't treat their victims fast enough.  Seems that once they get one person well, three more fall ill, and five die.  It's a never ending struggle ...

III.

Ay-yi-yi! More troubles, more despair:  my littlest girl, Consuela, has come down with spots on her body, pain in her joints, and high fever.  Don't know how she could have gotten sick: she's been staying indoors; nobody has been over in weeks; people are scared to talk to each other, for fear that someone may be sick with the spotted fever!  I have talked to the medicine man, for him to come see her.  Hopefully he will come soon, before little Consuela gets any worse!

Later:

Consuela is delirious with fever.  She lies on her bed, moaning, thrashing her head from side to side, waving her thin limbs in the air, talking out of her head.  I am most worried about her.  Seems that no matter what the medicine man does, her fever continues to rise, higher and higher, as though it wants to burn her alive.

I have already lost little Albertino: I don't want to lose Consuela too!

IV.

God must be angry with me.  I must have sinned.  This is why He is punishing me by taking away my children.  Consuela has joined her baby brother in Heaven; she is an angel now.  She died last night; she was only five summers old, just a little thing.  I am angry with Him, too: I don't want to have anything more to do with Him!!

V.

I don't know when or if this epidemic of spotted fever will ever end or go away.  It continues to take people at a terrifyingly swift pace; we, the native Mexicans, are powerless to stop it.  I am about to go mad with grief and fear!!

*to be continued.*