On Saturday June Twenty-seventh the alarm went off as it usually does far, far too early. I was still very tired from the previous night when a last minute fiasco had sent me to the pharmacy at nine o'clock at night trying to get a new prescription of malaria pills, and I then spent a frustrating, tiring half hour trying to fruitlessly negotiate with the heartless pharmacy workers who were more worried about working past the end of their shift than the fact that I could get a life threatening disease.
Of course it was inevitable that some disaster like this would happen, Murphy's law still holds true, but it was also inevitable that once I returned home Dad found the pills on the kitchen table. Yes the kitchen table. Not in some crazy nook or cranny, the kitchen table. I don't know how I missed them there or if they magically appeared there, but I've never seen such beautiful, beautiful pills in all my life!
Just look at them!
They are the last thing I need before I embark on the trip of a lifetime, to a place hundreds and hundreds of miles away.
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