Our time and supplies are limited, but we need to manage his pain. Acetaminophen, NSAIDs, and toradol are the only pain relief at my disposal, and I use them all. I emotionally compartmentalize him as already dead and move on to 1 of the other 32 people treated that day. Much to my surprise, he returns the next clinic day and we treat him, although we expected him to die of renal failure or infection. He returns again, and again. Despite my better judgment, I start debriding his dead tissue and using our precious medication, medical-grade honey, over his entire body. His mood and activity slowly improve; his ability to cry out from our second-rate pain management is a good sign. His parents are ecstatic about the slow change in their son. Three times a week for many months, we spend countless hours and limited resources on his treatment. In many ways, he reminds me of my own sons. He asks me if I have children, and then he asks for my family picture to put on the wall of his bedroom. Against my better judgment, I start to hope.