It’s the end of the week, and I have yet to travel back to my fragile mother’s house. My father and I remain patient while waiting for this fog to reduce in viscosity and thickness. However, he has grown tired and is anxious to learn of my mother’s condition.
He has been experimenting with certain mechanical filters, in the hopes that mundane lungs are given a chance to breathe through the thick air. His experiments have yet to reach a breakthrough, but he remains utterly adamant. For the best hope I have, I wish this accursed fog does not take my mother’s life nor my father’s sanity from me.
His schematic and diagrams are based on a type of miniature hydraulic within a mask, that pumps the thick air through a filter and, hypothetically, cleanses the fog.
I have little understanding of the physics behind such an object, but my father claims it will work.
For my mother’s sake and his mental well-being, I hope so.