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Dr. Najjar arrived the next morning alone and greeted my parents as if they were old friends. Now that they had identified the disease, and knew that there was no teratoma, it was time to figure out what treatment could save me. If he miscalculated, I might never recover. He had spent the night deliberating about what to do, waking up in sweats and rambling to his wife. He had finally decided to act with abandon. He didn’t want to wait for things to worsen; I was already too close to the edge. He delivered the plan of action while tugging at the corners of his mustache, deep in thought. Since my mom hadn’t been there for Dr. Russo’s visit, my dad jotted the news down in their shared logbook: [Картинка: _16.jpg] Despite his gruffness, as he would later write in his journal, he felt the same concerns as my mother:“The very sound of a brain biopsy scared me. I could hear my mother’s voice telling me not to do it. I could hear her tell me to never let anyone mess with the brain. She had seen a lot of bad things happen as an RN and she didn’t trust brain surgeons. I had to remind myself how long ago thatwas.” Around fifteen young men from Gladovi?i gathered in a thin copse of trees near the main road. They included Ilijaz’s cousin—a medical technician named Sulejman Pilav—and Ilijaz’s good friend and neighbor ?efik Mand?ic, a kind, confident man in his late twenties who specialized in constructing minarets.

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