I am five, I am sick and raving, I am counting the paces between my bed and my Mom and Dad's bed—weeping, and moaning, and doing it over and over and over and over and over again because I must, because I cannot stop, because I just keep weaving stomping back and forth, wondering, crying out, I need to know: 30 or 31 steps, 30 or 31, 30 or 31, 30 or 31—and someone gets up, and speaks to me, and takes me to lie in my bed, while shapes and outlines of colors, shifting and lumpy, swirl around me, over my bed and circling round in the darkness while I lay there, and I am feverish, and I am sick.