When I was 4 years old they put me in the hospital to remove my tonsils and adenoids. The night after they operated I could not sleep so I got up and I wandered down the huge corridor, nobody in sight, and I came to 2 big doors so I went through them and that is when I first heard the sound of real pain; I had wandered into the children’s burn unit and everywhere like a black tornado cloud rolling above the tree line there were the dark sobs and moans, a terrifying noise in the bones and cells, the emanations of illiterate flesh. Next to where I stood dumbstruck was a boy whose arms were bandaged but otherwise he was okay. You shouldn’t be here, he whispered, so I moved over next to him, our eyes reaching for one another in the dark. What happened to you? I asked him, trying not to cry. Don’t play with matches, he said, it hurts real bad and they leave you here alone in the dark. If you want the truth ask a child, but I was little: when he said “they” I thought he meant the matches.