Edward Anthony Mason woke that morning, after a nightmare, with the chills. It was the dead of winter in Chicago, this was to be expected. Their mansion was large and drafty, and the Chicago winters didn't help this one bit. However, this chilly feeling would lead to much worse things within the time span of only a few hours.
His valet came into the room at precisely 7:30, to bring his clothing and shave him when he was dressed. He walked down the staircase, excited to tell his parents of the young woman who had stolen their son's heart. Pauline Pritchard, a beautiful red-haired girl who was part of the high class society. She was the daughter of the man who owned very valuable property in New York. She was the type of girl that every young man's parents dreamed he was going to marry. He almost skipped down the steps, his hair a shaggy mess underneath his cap. He grinned widely, uncommonly so for the time of day, and sped up down the long hall as he remembered the baubles his mother promised him to give her son to his future wife. A beautiful, dainty diamond ring would be the first. It had been his grandmother's, hand made by his grandfather who had bought the Mason Mansion with his 49er's money from his youth. And then, his mother's favorite gift of all, a box of different jewels; hearts, ovals, squares, teardrops, all different colored fine-cut jewels. He himself was mesmerized by the collection; every single one was at least the size of a heavy-set quarter. His mother promised it to her only daughter who had passed at the age of 11, and it would be Edwards in turn. The young lad of 17 had to slow down as he reached the oak doors to the family breakfast room, and composed himself for a moment. Heart beating excitedly, he walked into the room.
The clock chimed his bells; naming the hour. The nearby corridor was lined with a carefully placed hand-embroidered crimson rug that draped gracefully over the darkly polished wooden floors and led down the hall to the small family sitting around a polished table over untouched food and unexpected silence. Edward sat down, like every day, slightly winded from his dash down the staircase. At a slight noise that sent a shiver down every Chicago mother's back, the woman sat abruptly straight, fingers clenched around her cutlery, her eyes forward and distant in her lost thoughts as she stared at her son seated across from her. Her husband dropped his newspaper and followed her gaze with the same horrified expression. Their son stared back, a glint of dread overcome his features, hiding the shock of his action. "It was just a cough, Mother."
That it had been - a simple reflex to release air from the lungs. And yet the misery shone clearly on her face as her fork fell with a loud clutter onto her plate and she let out an involuntary groan of despair, her hand clamped firmly over her bodice were her heart thumped in panic. She turned to her husband, her breath came in pants.
"Edward," she moaned to him, her mouth pulled unpleasantly, "its how they all started."
"Mother," the young man whispered. "I'm fine, truly I am."
Elisabeth Mason shook her head, bronze curls bouncing. She stood and ambled quickly to his side, pressing her palm to his clammy, warm forehead, ignoring his objections. He was still sitting; she twisted her waist to meet his level, her arms shook as she embraced him with a dry, heaving sob.
His father was already standing at his other side, coats in his grasp. "We are going to the hospital."
"Don't be absurd," the son argued soothingly. "There is nothing wrong with me. We wear our masks outside, I couldn't possibly-" He thought with dread what his Pauline would think when she heard her fiancé was being admitted into the hospital for the cough that was taking large numbers everyday...
"Oh darling," she sighed, clenching his arm as they led him to the door. "They are mere precautions."
The streets of Chicago were damp and smelt strongly of the disease that passed through in the month of May, lingering through this June in 1918. Mr. and Mrs. Mason securely clamped the face-mask around their son, Edward, and themselves as they walked swiftly through the door and waved down a horse-trotting coach. The journey to the nearest medical facility was long and blurred; the carriage driver had insisted they not pay him for his services once he assumed they had been infected by the dreaded sickness that suddenly plagued the city, hearing the grunts of suppressed pain as the fever conquered the young man before him.