Shortly after my arrival at Albion, I’d embarked on the process of getting approved for hepatitis treatment. Back then, treatment meant a forty-eight-week-long regimen of weekly interferon shots, daily ribavirin pills, and a year of unpleasant side effects. Hepatitis is a slow-moving disease, so starting treatment wasn’t urgent—but I wanted to get it out of the way while I was in prison and had no real responsibilities. While a year of nausea or dizziness or debilitating fatigue might interfere with my life on the outside, in prison I had no life for it to interfere with. To qualify for
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