When I was eleven, I had virus pneumonia and whisperings around me let me know people wondered if I might die. I coughed a lot, grew emaciated and hollow-eyed. When my parents took me to a doctor, he started me on penicillin injections weekly for a while. I was told not to carry my baby brothers under any circumstances, just rest. Any eleven-year-old is going to get tired of that kind of life, especially since my treatment was to be for three whole months. For the first time in my life, I knew boredom. It was probably the only time I could not look around and figure out something to do.