"-it's unlikely he'll make it through the night."

And with eight words, Alexander, who is able to spout perfect speeches on command, who can spit out fully formed arguments without a moment's thought, who uses words with the ease of a seasoned soldier firing his weapon, is speechless.

"I'm sorry." The doctor offers sympathetically, clapping a hand on Alexander's shoulder before turning away, leaving him standing dumbstruck in the dining room.

Philip.

His first born child. His son. He needs to find a another doctor, a better doctor, clearly this one doesn't know what he's doing. Where's Edward Stevens? He can fix Philip. Philip, his oldest child, his brilliant, handsome son. His head feels strange...

"Philip-"

He's laying on a couch in the living room. How did he get there? How-

"You fainted." Angelica looks at him, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "The doctor was discussing Philip's condition and you fainted."

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. Her eyes are puffy red.

"You're crying." He says. His stomach drops. "Oh, no. Oh, Angelica, please,"

"He's still alive, Alexander." She turns away. "Go, see him."

Philip's room had always been a flurry of activity. Sketches hung proudly from the walls and books were stacked the floor to the ceiling. He'd always been a boisterous child, reciting loud poetry, singing crude songs, performing one man plays alone in his room until his siblings banged on the walls in annoyance.

Eliza is kneeling at Philip's bedside, holding his hand to her forehead and whispering incessant prayers. The doctor is bent over his son. Philip is flat on the bed, right arm bandaged above his head. He is tense, good hand holding tightly to his mother, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His freckles stand out from the wan pale that has settled on his cheeks. His mouth is agape, forming words that don't seem to be making it out of his throat. He doesn't look up when his father enters. The doctor prods Philip's exposed stomach and he out a strangled gasp that hits Alexander like a punch to the gut.

"What are you doing to him?" Alexander roars wildly, crossing the room in quick strides. Eliza clings tighter to her son, tears falling down her cheeks.

"I'm trying to locate the bullet." The doctor straightens up. "His fever has worsened. He's fallen into a delirium"

"Have you tried, I don't know, maybe being a competent doctor, or actually-"

"Alexander." Eliza cuts him off sharply. "The doctor is doing all he can."

Alexander falls silent. He falls to his son's side, grasping the quaking shoulder. Philip doesn't give any indication that he recognizes the touch.

The room returns to its tense silence. The outside gradually darkened around them. The doctor eventually packed his bag and told the silent couple that he'd be down the hall if they needed him.

They didn't respond.

Alexander had laid down next to his son, one hand clutching his son's shoulder, and the other worrying a small cross. Eliza had long since done the same.

Around midnight, Philip screams. He rips his hand from his mother and curls in on himself, grasping at the bloody bandages around his ribs.

"It hurts," he moans. Eliza's crying again. She holds her son's head in her lap. Alexander immediately is pulling at his son.

"I know, I know, shh, Philip. You have to lay still." He says miserably, pushing him onto his back. Philip screams again, dissolving into sobs that seem to only hurt him worse.

"It hurts, Pa, it /hurts/-"

Eliza screams for the doctor.

"Philip," Alexander says, feigning calm in a calamity. "Philip, do you remember that poem you wrote on your ninth birthday?"

"It hurts.."

"You were so excited to show it to me. You ran into my office, and you recited it so quickly, I couldn't understand a word you were saying." Alexander laughs, stifling a sob. He wipes away the tears on his cheek.

"How did it go, Philip? Do you remember?"

Philip's eyes are half-shut now, he groans quietly. Eliza's tears fall onto his face. The doctor bursts through the bedroom door, half-dressed, but stops suddenly.

"My name is Philip," He says. The words are weak, his voice cracks. "I am a poet. I..." He trails off as his eyes close.

"Keep him talking." The doctor urges quietly, reaching for his bag.

"-Wrote this poem, just to show it." Eliza supplies tremulously.

"I jus' turned nine." Philip slurs. "You can wri' rhymes. But. you can' write mine." His eyes slide shut.

"I practice- I practice french," Alexander stutters. But Philip doesn't respond. The doctor studies his son, and Alexander can't breath.

"He's unconscious." He declares.

Eliza sobs.

The doctor instructs them to lay their son flat on the bed, pillows elevating his broken arm. He tries, but cannot remove them from the bed. They lay on either side of him. Eliza whispers nursery rhymes, running her hands through Philip's curls. Alexander is silent. Words won't come. Only a flurry of memories, of Philip's birth, as a sunny three year old, running in the garden, as a precocious thirteen year old giving his teachers (and parents) endless grief. As a nineteen year old, telling his father that he was challenging George Eaker to a duel over Alexander's honor with a cocky smile on his face. I'll be home for dinner. He had said. I'll be fine.

Philip never wakes up. Eliza is singing an old Dutch song when his chest stops rising. It takes them a few seconds to realize.

Eliza screams.

Alexander holds his son to his chest.

My name is Philip

I am a poet

I wrote this poem just to show it

And I just turned nine

You can write rhymes

But you can't write mine.