“I can’t close my eyes. I will die.” She told me as her breathing grew shallow. “I can’t breathe. I am dying. Please tell my friends what happened.” “Look at me. Breathe with me. In through your nose. Out your mouth.” I attempted to calm her by speaking quietly and rhythmically. Slowly her breathing became deeper. “I just know I am going to die. What if I have a disease that is from another country and the cure is not in America yet? I don’t travel to other countries so I will die.” Again, I talked rationally to her hoping to ease her worry. She continued to tell me she was going to die. No matter the rationale I used, she continued to be convinced that come morning, she would be dead. No matter the number of times I told her I would keep her safe, she was adamant that she was dying. No matter what I did or said, she knew she was going to die. I would like to tell you that this is the beginning of a story I am writing. A piece of fiction. This is no piece of fiction. The anx