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bacteria. However, the worst scars on my face came from
one disease that everyone knew formally.
    The Black Death was the worst outbreak of
bubonic plague in human history. In 1350, when I was ten years old,
it ravaged England and the rest of Europe. It killed one third of
the continent’s population, but those of us whose immune systems
fought off the bacteria were forever scarred. The plague was named
for buboes, the swollen lymph nodes that were characteristic of
infection. Describing them as super boils would not be far off. I
survived the plague, but my skin could never recover from the
beating it took. Thanks to television and movies, people always
assume vampires should be dark, brooding hunks. This is simply not
the case for anyone born before the invention of medicine. I had
gotten used to my disfigurement, but it was always difficult for
others to accept in modern society. Not a day went by that I did
not pray to look like David Boreanaz or Robert Pattinson.
    “Shush, don’t be rude,” Katie’s mother
scolded.
    “It’s fine,” I lied as I examined the chart.
“I know what a… precocious age eight can be. To answer your
question, sweetheart, my mommy and daddy never gave me the shots
that prevent sickness. I bet you remember being mad at your mommy
when she took you in to see a doctor like me, and he stuck you with
a bunch of needles.”
    “Actually,” Katie’s mother sheepishly
interrupted. “We never gave her any of the vaccines. We were
concerned about the link to autism.”
    Katie’s eyes went wide as she put two and two
together. “Am I going to look like that?” she asked in terror while
pointing a finger at my face.
    “No, honey. Mommy and Daddy were just worried
that—”
    Katie was not to be placated. Her mother
lunged forward much more quickly than before as Katie let out her
terrible shriek. When she tired herself out, I witnessed something
I had never seen before. Given how many years I have been
practicing medicine, that is an impressive statement. I could not
help but show my amusement as the child begged me to give her
shots. After twenty minutes of trying to explain to the girl how
much medicine had advanced in the last fifty years, we reached an
uneasy stalemate.
    “Okay, Katie. Given how well you scream, I
think it’s safe to say that the atomic deconstruction gun is not
lodged in your throat. I just need to take a quick look to make
sure everything is okay though. All I’m going to do is shine a
light down there, and I promise it won’t hurt at all. Is that
okay?”
    Katie, likely still worrying about developing
horrible facial scars, nodded dispassionately.
    “Yup,” I said to Katie’s mother after I had
finished the examination. “Nothing to worry about unless she starts
complaining of throat or stomach pain. The gun will pass through
her system naturally. Although I doubt your son’s Johnny Nuclear
action figure will want it back.”
    Katie’s mother gave an obligatory smile at my
joke, thanked me and proceeded to shuffle her daughter towards the
examination room’s door. When she reached the hallway she hesitated
and turned back.
    “If my husband and I changed our minds about
the vaccines, would it be too late?” she questioned.
    “Nope,” I said with a forced smile. “Katie’s
primary care doctor should be able to take care of that for
you.”
    “Thank you, doctor,” Katie’s mother
responded.
    “No problem,” I said to myself after the two
had darted from the examination room. “I love being a cautionary
tale.”
     
    It was an hour and a half later that the E.R.
staff, with my assistance, finally worked through the backlog of
patients caused by the aardvark flu scare. I was finishing up an
examination of my last patient for the night. He was fourteen,
tired and vomiting into an emesis basin. Young Tyrone did have the
flu, but there was nothing exotic or unusual about it. Before I had
a chance to finish with the patient, Robert Little walked into