I walk into Nagila's apartment, a tiny space in the basement of a hundred-year-old home south of the University of Utah campus, and see all the signs of someone battling a sickness: tissues, a pile of blankets and a pillow on the couch, cough drops, pill bottles, and something in a mug on a side table. Nagila doesn't hug me like usual when we see each other after a few months. She doesn't want me to get sick. I sit on the couch facing the TV that's playing an old Gilmore Girl