The Harvard Crimson's Summer Postcards

A Dose of Comfort

ACCRA, Ghana — When my brother shot heroin into his pulsing arm, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his mouth wound in a tight, but content, grimace. He then picked up a needle from the grimy floor and extended it to me—my own brother!

Upon leaving the dank lair of the unmercifully graphic dream, I was crying and shaking. A few minutes further into reality, I promptly shot up in bed, pumped my fists in the air, and celebrated the magic of mefloquine.

Nightmares and hallucinations were small costs to pay for avoiding malaria, and I rejoiced at every piece of evidence that I would leave Ghana alive. I still long for my next dose of mefloquine, and never have I felt as panicked as the morning that I realized I was a few hours behind in my weekly dose. After running to the nearest market stand to buy bread and stuffing thick swathes of it into my dry mouth, I popped the pill with trembling fingers. —Esther I. Yi