The cold beads of sweat sliding down my slick sides, under my shirt, mimic the speed of this blood sugar dive I’m standing at my kitchen counter trying to fight, with juice and crackers and peanut butter. Earlier I was angry, to be so high without cause, but so tired from the high I miscalculated the correction. It took a while for me to feel this one; I thought I was just cold. 547 to 40. I am the drop of cold sweat, sliding down my own side.