Looking for Marco Polo Read Online Free Page B

get one here. This place is all shops and water.
    Your son, Mark

4
T HE W HEEZING S ICKNESS
    Maybe it was the long trip without sleep. Maybe he got it wandering in the cold damp of Venice. Whatever it was, that night it got him. Mark woke up coughing. He couldn’t get his breath. He banged on his mother’s door.
    “Mom, I can’t breathe,” he wheezed. “It feels like somebody’s standing on my chest.”
    His mother felt his head and listened to his chest. They tried the usual remedies—breathing over a sink of steaming hot water, rubbing Vicks on his chest and neck. Nothing helped.
    She went to the office and roused the night clerk.
    Mark’s door was open.
    “He’s sick!” she said. “My boy is sick. Get a doctor, please! Quickly, a doctor! He’s having trouble breathing.”
    Her voice had scare in it. The way she sounded made Mark scared.
    “You want … you want a doctor to come here, to this place, Madam?” the clerk stammered. “No, you must go to the hospital. It is best, the hospital.”
    “Look! He’s in no condition to go outside and ride in a boat,” she snapped. “I want a doctor to come here.”
    “The hospital is close, Madam,” the clerk pleaded. “I summon the rescue boat.”
    “The hotel does not have a doctor on call?”
    “No, Signora.”
    She hurried back to Mark’s bedside with her notebook and mobile phone. “I’m calling an army doctor here, an old friend of Dad’s. They were in the Gulf War together. Let’s see if he’ll come.”
    Mark was struggling to suck in air. It sounded like there was a whistle trapped in his chest.
    The phone rang for a long time. She was about to quit when the doctor answered. “Doctor Hornaday, this is Marian, Marian Hearn. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I’m here with our son, and he’s having an asthma attack. He’s coughing—can’t get his breath.
    “No. The clerk says we should go to the hospital, but … You’ll come? Oh, wonderful, Doc. Thank you!”
    Mark was sitting up in bed, head to knees, hacking and panting, when the buzzer sounded.
    His mother left his door open when she went to the reception area to greet the doctor. Mark could see into the hallway.
    It took a long time, but at last the doctor appeared, out of breath from climbing the sixty-eight steps.
    Mark’s mother held out both hands in greeting. “Thanks for coming!”
    Dr. Hornaday was a tall black man with a tightly clipped mustache. His forehead gleamed. Mist had caught on his dark felt hat and in his eyebrows. His eyebrows were thick and gray like pads of steel wool.
    “It’s been a long time. Good to see you,” he said in a deep voice as he unwrapped his red wool scarf and tapped his hat against his coat to get the water off. His hair was like his eyebrows. He carried a scuffed black doctor’s case.
    Behind him limped a large black long-haired dog. His head came to the doctor’s waist. His coat was matted and wet. He shook himself hard, making his chain collar and tags clank like somebody emptying a box of silverware into a drawer.
    The dog’s big shake sent drops flying. Fluffed up, he looked huge. His paws were the size of Mark’shands. When he walked, his claws clicked on the floor. He was panting from the climb, his long wet tongue gleaming bluish black over his big white teeth.
    Mark’s mother was surprised to see the dog. The night clerk was terrified. His mouth went wide like a clown’s as he flapped his arms wildly to wave the animal away.
    “Fuori! Fuori!
Outside! Outside!
None permesso!
We do not allow dogs!” he squealed, hurrying behind his desk. “It is not permitted!”
    The dog smiled, woofed hello, and wagged. The swipe of his wag cleared the brochures and tourist ads off the side table.
    “I’m sorry, Signore,” the doctor replied as he stooped to pick up the wet brochures, “but this is no ordinary dog—he’s my buddy. I can’t travel the dark alleys of Venice at night without Boss. He’s my eyes, my map, and