I dreamt of running in the fields, but then I’d feel a spike of anxiety, wondering how much I could last in this weather. The shortness of breath would come right after, and the sweaty palms too. Everything would start getting darker and darker, and I’d wake up with a pounding heart and a wet bed.

I couldn’t hide it from my grandma since I had to wash the sheets, but she never told the others. My brothers would make fun of me, and I wanted to spare my father from another disappointment. It was the smell that set them off one morning.

“It smells like piss in here.” - father said.

“Oh, the stupid dog must have done it inside again.” - one of my brothers said.

“Come here, you mut. How many times do we have to teach you.” - father said and grabbed the stick that they used to educate the dogs.

When it saw it, the dog tucked its tail and tried to hide under the table. But I knew that wouldn’t save it from a beating, and I couldn’t let it get hurt for something I’ve done. Father went to the table and pulled it out by the neck. That’s when I hesitated. It wasn’t going to be the last time the dog got beat, and what were a couple more strikes, it would forget as soon as they were gone. But when he swung the stick I knew I couldn’t watch this.

“Don’t beat it. It wasn’t the dog…” - I said ready for the insults and the mockery that were going to follow.

“You pissed yourself?” - one of my brothers said and pulled the sheets, uncovering a dark spot underneath.

“You need to lay in bed all day. Now you started soiling the bed. Should I start chewing your food for you too?” - the other one continued.

It was a nightmare of a day, but I wasn’t mad. I hugged the dog, still sitting in the piss-smelling bed. In a weird way, I enjoyed the jokes because I got to be one of the boys for a day. They told the entire village, and every kid that passed by my house snickered, but at least I took part in one of their stories for once. My mother gave them a beating either way, and I got a stern look from my father.

“Being soft on the boy won’t help. Give him a small cup of ale. It’ll burn whatever’s hurting him inside.” - I heard father telling grandmother that day before they left.

“If I start giving him ale, pissing the bed’s going to be the least of his problems.” - grandmother replied.

“It’s what our people have been doing for generations, and we’ve lived so far, haven’t we? They’re growing all soft now. A cough is killing children left and right. My father cured everything with ale.”

“Your father was an alcoholic, not a healer.”

Grandmother always had herbs around, so she made me tea when everyone else left. It was still bitter on the tongue but nothing like my father’s ale. I took the warm cup and imagined that whatever was in those dried leaves that floated in it would burn that thing that made me cough. No matter how bad the illness was, it wasn’t the worst. I started forgetting what the world beyond the yard was like. I couldn’t remember the name of the kids that ran past the house, and each day I left a little more chicken soup uneaten at the bottom of the bowl.

Then people started coming to grandmother complaining that their children were coughing too.