I inserted a scene like this into my third novel. I recast it, reimagined it, repositioned it. It was the only time—until this—that I ever put anything to do with my encephalitis into writing. I made the girl in the bed into the sister of the protagonist; I made the child outside into a little boy, pulling a toy train. I made the nurse beside me jump up, embarrassed and shocked, to shut the door. I used to read it whenever I did public events for the book, which strikes me now as an odd choice. Why did I do that? Why read a scene drawn from what is possibly one of the worst moments you could
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