He watches the lady bend over, her tiny body crouched over a bush, picking at leaves and sorting through petals and plants with her wrinkled fingers. Old as she might be, her actions are still nimble and strong, pushing through challenges every day with rejuvenating energy.

"Help me take these, Milton," she says as she hobbles over to him with a bundle of herbs in one hand and a small basket in the other. "We need to get to the clinic with these medicine as soon as possible."Milton recalls the sight of children, adults and seniors slumped over, bodies burdened with illness. It's terrifying to witness.

"Coming!" he calls, and sweeps up the basket, making sure none of the precious herbs spill over. After all, they're needed for the people's treatment.

They start their journey up a hill, the path weathered by the footsteps of men and the fresh wind from the ocean nearby.

"We're just a small village in the middle of nowhere," his grandmother tells him for the possibly hundredth time, "so, we need to fend for and take care of ourselves."Milton nods. He knows how illnesses could wipe out the entire village. He's seen an epidemic for himself, seen how it took the people away, seen what sort of horrors it could bring to the village.

"We, as villagers with a basic knowledge of medicinal herbs, should do our best to contribute to the nursing of sick ones - help those in need."

When they've reached the top, the teen breaks into a run, still careful not to turn the basket in his arm upside-down even before he's reached the tiny hut. He raps on the wood, and the door is opened.

"The medicine is here!" he calls. The nurses inside breathe out, clearing whatever tense air is in their lungs, and reach forth to take the basket into their care.

"Thank you so much for your help," they whisper. "There are so many patients today and we wouldn't know what we would have done without the both of you.""You're very welcome," says Milton's grandmother as she steps to his side.

He glances inside the room while his grandmother and the nurses exchange quiet words and advice. It looks dull, the patients probably sitting somewhere in another room, and his heart feels constricted, suffocated, pained at the thought of it.

Sailors who go out into the waters to earn their food, the ones who come back drenched in salt water and hit with a cold, the ones who gain all sorts of illnesses with the lack of proper hygiene out there in the empty waves.

He swallows and steps away from the hut, waving goodbye to the nurses and helping his grandmother down the slopes.

"I'll be a doctor next time, grandma," he tells her, firm determination rooted in his eyes, burning brightly like the coals in a furnace warming up the cold. "I'll be a doctor, and help all the sick and end the plight here."His grandmother nods and smiles at him; she is glad for his dreams, but she knows not many get the chance to escape the life of a villager in the middle of nowhere and enter the bright cities further into the world.

He does, though. He gets the chance to, when one day his teacher tells his parents about the hard work he's put into studying, and the potential he has to get into the bigger schools out there, they decide to fund his studying as a nurturing, blooming student who will create a brighter future for the world, or if not that, his village.

~~~~~~

University was tough, but forturnately, he pulled through.

Thanks to the lectures and countless nights of studying the human anatomy, the workings of the little pathogens that enter the body and attack, and the ways to fight against them, Milton stands in front of the huge city with a small luggage in hand and a smile on his face.

Finally.

His dream has come true.

Well, not quite. He has yet to start his first day at the clinic in the most popular corner of the city and serve his first patient. He doesn't worry, though - he has a day to unpack and explore the buildings and streets of this bustling area that is nothing like his home before he goes for work as an official doctor.

Imagine the title on his wall - Dr. Milton Smith. He's finally someone who can help the sick in the best way possible - giving them the proper diagnosis and the proper prescription.

How wonderful.

He smiles to himself as he walks to his apartment - a small flat rented out by a lovely couple. He couldn't be happier.

He unpacks, takes a tour around the place, has dinner, and then decides it's time to call it a day and rest for the busy day tomorrow.

~~~~~~

The clinic is neat and pristine, absolutely nothing like the hut he frequented back in his childhood. There aren't any grimy walls stained with grease from the medicine cooked and brewed from simple herbs, nor any bleak, dull faces when he steps into the clinic.

Instead, what he sees is a friendly receptionist and two cheery colleagues from the other consultation rooms. There are cushioned benches and bright magazines, and there is no slick of dirt on the walls. It looks perfect.

It even smells of the favourite disinfectant he used when he was a trainee in the university he studied in.

He is hustled into one of the rooms, shown his desk and equipment, and that's it - work starts. His first patient will be coming in very soon.

And there she comes, knocking on the door in a most polite manner, bustling in with a red nose and a sore voice as she speaks about her ailments and he takes it down in his new, shiny computer as fast as he can.

Now, this is easy - she's got a bacterial infection of her throat, which may turn into a bacterial cold that could take her down with a fever for the next few days, so he prescribes antibiotics to fight the bacteria before they spread too far down and tell her to wait outside to collect the medicine.

She thanks him and leaves.

This is an easy job. Diagnose, prescribe, done. He's helped a patient with her ailment, and she should be fine in a few days.

After the door clicks shut, he lets himself smile to the ceiling and twirl about in his new chair.

"This is my dream job," he says to the cold air in front of him. "This is what I've always wanted."

~~~~~~

Except, it isn't.

Not all patients are as easygoing and patient as the first woman he's diagnosed on the first day of work in the clinic. Milton soon sees the yawns his other fellow doctors sneak in between breaks, the dark eye circles they hide behind their surgical masks, the bleary, bloodshot eyes behind their spectacles.

He now understands why the receptionist often pulls a long face when she isn't at the counter to pass patients their medicine or take their number or register their names into the list of people on the queue.

One of the worst that he's met is a mother whose teenage child is down with a slight fever and he's ascertained that he's got exhaustion.

When he advises the mother to not overwork the poor teen - just look at his own eye circles and the way he staggers into the room with great difficulty - she shoots him a string of profanity and insults, shouting at him for lecturing her about how to treat her child. He can only sigh in response and request for her to leave the room.

It's tough, but he tries to hang in there.

One day, he returns to his apartment and checks his bank account on his phone.

The total sum stated there - the money he's saved up from all the work in the city - isn't enough to pay the total of the rent, the loans he's gotten to attend university, and the money to send back to his village.

He sighs and collapses on his bed.

It's going to be tough.

Pursuing his dreams from the start may not be such a good idea, he thinks. This is too much work.

The next day, he shuffles into his consultation room with a bleary mind, dreading what the day has to bring. He doesn't even care to bring the occasional joke into his conversation with his patient, or take extra effort to advise them about their condition.

He doesn't really enjoy it that much anymore.

Is it worth it, he thinks when he finally pulls through the day and returns to his tiny apartment.

What is he really working for?

---

Another piece that I submitted for the creative arts programme.