Death is a distant rumor to the young. ~Andrew A. Rooney

         My cousin, Michael, knows me all too well. As soon as we get to the hospital door, he scoops me up into his big, restraining arms. I have always had a particular dislike for hospitals.When I think of hospitals, I think of sickness and death, things that I wished to never encounter. I should have wished harder.  As he cradles me against his chest, I try to bury my  face deeper and deeper into his shirt attempting to cover up the smell of bleach and death. I don't want to see where we are, all I want to do is stay in Michael's protective arms until everything is over. I hear familiar voices slowly creeping towards us along with many unfamiliar voices. I want to be rude and tell them to go away  because I am afraid they will take me away from Michael, but by the way he pulls me closer, I know he won't let them. I can hear the doors opening and closing, and opening and closing as more and more people file in. As I peer over Michael's shoulder, I see doctors rushing around pushing carts, which makes me wonder what part of the hospital we are in. Almost as soon as I thought this, I found the answer. The salty taste of tears mixes with the metallic taste I get before I get sick. I see the blurs of strangers all around me, I feel their unfamiliar, sympathetic strokes and pats. It makes no difference, they don't understand. I am ten years old, this shouldn't happen to anyone my age.