Julian was a hard-working doctor; everyone knew that. He had spent the last three hours hunched over his wooden desk. The only light was the flicker of a solitary flame; its feeble glow bathed the parchment in an amber hue, revealing the frantic strokes of Julian’s quill. Countless hours of non-stop work made his dark eyebags even more pronounced in the dim candlelight. Locks of unruly, red hair tumbled over Julian’s forehead. With each frustrated swipe of the doctor’s hand, strands were slicked back, only to defiantly fall back into his line of sight. The ache in Julian’s muscles begged for respite, a silent plea drowned out by the urgency of his calling. The chair beneath him offered little comfort, yet he remained rooted, steadfast in his resolve to ease the suffering of others. The quill in his hand scratched out another possible cure for Anon’s illness. His messy handwriting is barely legible. Julian crumpled up the ink-soaked, worn paper, tossing it into the growing trash pile. The doctor was so lost in his thoughts, concentrating on his work, that he failed to notice Anon’s sickly figure slipping through the entryway.