The date is ... Ouch — my entire body hurts. The date is June 24, 1871, and ... I have smallpox.

One of my messmates had it, so he probably gave it to me. I might have to move out, so I don't infect more people ... and I might have to quit my job.

I'm sorry, Mama and Papa, but I can't work any longer with this. I'm in so much pain with these sores covering my body. For the past few days, I have done nothing except sweat out my fever and attempt to sleep. Even though I have been bedridden for the past few days, I do not have an ounce of energy. Merely holding this quill quivers in my hand as if it were still on the bird itself. Pardon me if you cannot read this. Hopefully, you will be able to make out these words if you look under the sun.

My head pounds as hard as hoofbeats against the pavement. I asked my messmate if he could fetch me a glass of water, but he didn't seem too well. In the end, I ended up getting one for myself and one for him. After that was over, he seemed back to normal.

Perhaps this means I can go back to work, but things are not looking up. I doubt I will be well enough to go back in a month.

And it doesn't help that my back feels like it could snap in half. Maybe this really is something more than Smallpox — because this sounds pretty big to me.