Florence Nightmare Against a backdrop of gray skies and light mist, the Charleston Municipal Hospital appeared even bleaker than its surroundings. Inside Room 211, seven-year-old Patricia Sirrine slept in her bed. She had light yellow hair that was fanned out around her head, creating a glow that surrounded a deathly pale face. An i.v. ran to her arm. A plastic hospital bracelet encircled her delicate wrist. Light purple veins pulsed faintly beneath the skin. The door opened and a woman entered. Ruth Dykstra looked like a country doctor with a friendly, kind face. She wore a cobalt blue sweater over her white, heavily starched nurse's uniform. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She walked to the little girl’s bedside. "How are we doing Patricia?" she said, in a deep but gentle voice. Patricia’s eyes fluttered open. "Mmm. Hi," the girl said. "Hello, little beauty." "Who...?” "I’m your doctor, honey," Ruth said. Patricia struggled to stay awake. "You’ve had a long fight, my little Pattycake.
