Slumped in a wheelchair in the hospital yard, Dieuson Dorvil had just begun spelling his name when a spasm gripped his chest and he turned away to vomit.
His mother, Isma, held him as he shuddered and heaved, filling a bucket at his feet. It seemed impossible that such an emaciated figure could produce so much but the disease was sucking the fluid from his body.
Around the yard and inside the wards babies and children, men and women, lay curled and motionless, their stares glassy. The only sound was the occasional retch.
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