George stood outside on the balcony. In the distance, a sign read Welcome to Miami in stark white letters. Underneath, in spray paint, it continued bien venido a Miami. Palm trees lined each side of the street approaching the motel whose balcony held the lumbering weight of George’s two hundred seventy-three-pound frame.
The cotton plants swayed gently in the breeze as a shrouded figure walked across the plantation. A large metal cross dangled from his waist as gnarled hands gripped a rosary. As he walked, two men stood in the distance waiting for him. One, the plantation owner, clad in rustic wear with a fat face and menacing glare in his eye. The other, a political man in an expensive suit holding a pocket watch as he checked the time every few moments.
I will first begin with a disclaimer, I am not a medical person at all, I am speaking through an historical lens and not a medical one. That being said, you don’t have to be a doctor to read a history book, but it seems the doctors at the CDC haven’t.