This is Girl speaking. I learned I was mad the night I sat down to write about my experience with being hospitalized in a foreign country. I was seated at the balcony, listening in on the crickets singing (or whatever it is that crickets do), and replacing it with the hushing between nurses who do not speak of the dead and the dripping. Oh, the constant dripping. Some might compare it to a tap someone refused to turn off, but I, yes, I saw it as a reminder, of borrowed time, of the fine line between driving to the mountains with a clear head and laying in a ditch as the rain drops on your scalp, one by one. Drip, drip, drip. The doctors were a whole other ordeal. Where the nurses were tender, the doctors were rough, loud, made it clear that no pain will go away just by not talking about it. They brought in their big, scary devices and did not once try to act like the sting would not hurt. They noted down the answers to the stupid questions that not even they listened to. And...