A drawing during my days of paranoia.
Editor’s Note: This feature was originally published on July 8, 2015.
This is a story about the summer I got drugged in North Africa. Every time I tell it, I hate it a little more—for reasons that, I hope, will become clear. In fact, this may be the last time I tell it.
One summer afternoon several years ago, when the heat was so heavy, you could feel its weight on your shoulders, I was sitting outside at a table in a medium-sized town in the Rif Mountains drinking a cloudy tumbler of atay, a sweet green tea made with spearmint leaves that is popular throughout the Maghreb.
