Nome, Alaska, February, 1924.

Dr. Timothy Mitchell, clad in a worn but warm white coat, reviewed patient records and checked the inventory of medicines. The routine of a small-town doctor was predictable yet comforting.

The harsh Alaskan winters had etched lines on his weathered face, a testament to the years he had spent serving the community. His blue eyes, however, still held a sharp glint, reflecting the wisdom accumulated over decades of practice.

There had been a few genuine health scares in the past few years, namely the flu of 1918 and 1919. People had lost their lives during it, and Mitchell was there as he always was in Nome to take care of the townsfolk whom he’d long come to know as friends.

Half of the native Alaskan population in Nome had been decimated, but the European members of the community recovered much more easily; perhaps it was due to the fact that the natives had never been exposed to foreign diseases.

White Mountain, a town nearly 67 miles from Nome, had also handled the flu rather well. The elders of the village had closed off entry, keeping the residents well quarantined and safe from the outside, so that no one could bring the flu to them.

A series of knocks at the door disturbed him from his thoughts.

The worn wooden floor creaked beneath his weight as he approached the entrance. The bitter cold from outside seeped through the gaps, and he could feel the chill even before opening the door. With a gentle push, the door swung open, revealing a bundled up figure.

“Dr. Mitchell!”

It was a man he had not seen before. An Athabaskan by the looks of it. “What’s wrong, sir?” he asked, a look of concern on his face.

The man was out of breath. “I come to Sitnasuak from Solomon; we need your help.”

Dr. Timothy recalled that Solomon had been one of the towns struck badly by the flu a few years prior.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“My wife is very sick with an infection. She couldn’t make it here, so I went ahead to you,” the rugged man explained. “Please, come to our home in Solomon.”

Mitchell took in what was said, and went over to the room he stored all of his medicine. “I will go immediately with you. Let me gather some things,” the doctor said before rushing into the room to collect various medicine vials and tools, storing them in a ruddy brown medical bag.

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He took with him what he was expecting to potentially need.

The crisp air stung Dr. Mitchell’s face as the dogs trudged on through the snow, racing to their home. The man from Solomon drove the huskies, his breath visible in the chill as he hurried through the white-covered paths.

As they approached the outskirts of Nome, the glow of the clinic's oil lamps faded into the distance. Mitchell had left his assistant behind in his place to take care of the townsfolk until he returned.

The journey to Solomon would take them through the dark wilderness, where the howls of distant wolves would keep them company. The constant yowling and the scent of the loyal huskies that pushed on ahead would very likely keep most of the dangerous animals away, however.

The urgency of the situation weighed heavily on Mitchell's shoulders. He knew the task of helping the man’s wife wouldn't be easy, but the commitment to his oath as a healer drove him forward. The cold dusk, however, could not freeze the warmth in his heart that fueled his dedication to the well-being of those under his care.

‘Thank God for the sled dogs,’ Timothy bowed his head in reverence to Heaven.

Dr. Mitchell examined the wife of the Athabaskan man, whom he’d learned was named Kuzih Nadene. She was weak, and struggled to breathe or even lift her head to look at him. She could not speak either, it would take too much strength.

“How long has she been like this?” Timothy inquired of her husband.

“About two weeks,” the man explained, “shortly after she cut her leg on the fence that keeps the dogs in.”

“Ah. She has been suffering a while.”

Dr. Mitchell felt the sickly woman’s forehead; it was boiling hot. He then turned to her husband, took him out of the room, and then began to explain the predicament, looking serious. “She is ill. Very ill. There isn’t a whole lot I can do for her, Mr. Nadene. I cannot promise her recovery, but I will do everything I can.”

Kuzih gritted his teeth in stress, and nodded. “I understand. Thank you…”

“I will do what I can tonight, stay for a few days and see if I can make a difference.”

During the next few hours, the doctor from Nome had treated his patient as best as he could. He admired that she still remained graceful even in her deteriorated state, knowing also that perhaps it was a sign that she still had fight left in her.

‘Good,’ Timothy thought with a hopeful smile. ‘If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the determination of the human spirit is the most superior of medicines.’

Mitchell drained her infected wound, cleaned it, and bandaged it up. Then he gave her a tonic to help give her more strength. Kuzih made a bed for the doctor on the floor, which Timothy was grateful for and slept cozily on it, despite the worry he had for his patient.

He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind for the sake of his own health and wellness. Instead, to fight against the doubt, he said a quiet prayer under his breath for her.

Mr. Nadene sat in a chair beside his wife’s bed, leaned over on her, holding her hand as he dozed off. He faithfully guarded her all throughout the night.