It spreads when shared needles pass blood to blood, like we sometimes did in the shadows behind the old pharmacy. Inside, it slowly breaks down the very soldiers in our blood that fight disease. But the world only speaks of other ways, hajur, and looks at us with fear, not seeing the shared struggle that led to the sharing of the needle. I know this because I held my friend Tshering's hand as he faded, his breath mixing with the mountain mist, and we had used the same syringe the winter before when the cold was cruel and we had nothing.
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