A low groan came from the cot in the corner of the room. Her three-year-old son tossed restlessly, entangling himself in the thin covering she’d placed over him. There was no relief from the Zambian heat, and the fever just kept rising. Lily felt so powerless, watching him suffer. She knew the people of her church were praying for her son, but thought, “I need to do something more.”
Gathering him into her arms, she set out, stepping carefully over the rutted ground. She was going to see the witch doctor…