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American History through a whole new lens.

Imagine it's July 1942 in San Antonio, Texas.

The glare of the morning sun hits your face as you push open your front door,

your baby daughter balanced against your hip.

Last night, your 5-year-old son was admitted to the hospital with polio,

and you're rushing out to visit him.

You're halfway down the porch steps when a man steps onto your front lawn with a stack of signs under his arm.

Hey, ma'am, I need you to go back inside. Your house is being placed under quarantine by orders of the San Antonio Department of Health.

He holds up one of the signs. Big black letters spell out the words, quarantine. Keep out of this house. Your stomach drops. But I have to go to the hospital to check on my son. I'm sorry, ma'am. The order came through this morning. No, no, listen to me. He fell down yesterday and he couldn't get up. His legs just stopped working. He's in terrible pain.

I have to see how he is. Ma'am, you can't go to the hospital. The polio ward is two-fold. They've stopped admitting visitors. I was there just last night. I only left because the doctors made me go home. I've been calling all morning for an update, but I can't get through. I have to go to the hospital. Look, ma'am, I'm sure the doctors are doing the very best for your boy, but you have to stay home. Oh, please, my son's only five. He needs his mother. You take a step forward to plead with the health officer, but he flinches and backs away so you don't get too close. Look, I know how hard this is, but you and your baby, you need to stay put,

and your son is likely infectious, so you'll need to burn his things, his toys, his books, anything he's touched. Burn them? Yeah, to stop the spread. You shake your head in disbelief and tighten your

grip on your daughter. Do you have children, sir?

I do, three boys.

And you've got to understand why I need to go.

I understand that I've got the health of my own boys to think of.

And the rest of the city's children, too.

...