He was diagnosed with encephalitis, and for days, we didn’t know whether he would live. My brother was hallucinating and then he was unconscious and then he was medivacked to Children’s Hospital in Washington, DC. Their arrival didn’t offer a cure but I counted down the hours all the same. What should have been a six-hour drive took my parents, traveling with my two younger sisters, ten. I called them, then 911, then a family friend, and I stood by as, over the course of a day, doctors administered spinal taps and CT scans, trying to isolate what was wrong. My parents had left the two of us home alone, to work, over the July Fourth weekend, and when I found him, one morning, barely conscious on the bathroom floor, they were six hours away from home. The summer before I left for college, my 16-year-old brother almost died.
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