To the north, McCarren Park sits directly across from the dilapidated WPA swimming pool. Sunlight glints off the steel of the newly erected razor wire. I note it with disappointment because I used to clamber over the fence and wander about the colossal structure, going into the eerie blue bellyof the drained pool, once jammed with thousands of young Brooklynites, now a receptacle for graffiti, and amazingly, stolen or abandoned cars.

Hungover and tired, I'm kicking a soccer ball around with my Brazilian friend. Sylvia is sitting under a tree, reading. We've just started together and the nervous energy of not knowing one another is what kept us up all night drinking, before going to bed. Ten minutes of kicking and I'm getting hot, not just hot and sweaty, but hot in my head. The ball comes at me in jagged lurches. There are moments when it doesn't move, when everything's frozen, then suddenly it's upon me and my muscles have to jerk into action. I recognize the symptoms and sit down under the tree, out of the sun. "I'm feeling dizzy," I say. When I come to, I don't know where I am. There's the leaves of the tree overhead and the clear summer sky, but I feel like I've been away for a long time. I'm looking straight up and gathered around are Sylvia, my Brazilian friend, and a man I don't recognize.

"You all right?" someone asks.
"I don't know," I say.
"What happened?"
"You had a seizure," the man says.

He's shaggy haired, scruffy, and smells of alcohol.
"You want some water?"
I sit up to sip it, but I'm shaky and it dribbles down my shirt.
"I passed out? Did you call an ambulance?"