I drank weed killer when I was fifteen. My parents drove me to the hospital while I guzzled milk and gurgled in the back seat. The recovery room was new; the walls were drywall covered with white plaster polkadots. I spent a week and a half listening to Mel Tormé and staring out a single pane window that had a lightning bolt crack, watching clouds and airplanes make their travels. In that week, no two airplanes took the same exact path, or left a same exact exhaust trail. I watched planes disappear into clouds, and I'd count how long it took for them to emerge on the other side. I tried to not lose track of the exhaust trails until they faded too much to see or merged with the clouds. I didn't count, but I must have watched more than 300 planes. In that week and a half, no one visited but my parents. When I got back to school, no one would talk to me.