Graciella* waited until she left the clinic before dissolving into tears. “I don’t understand how this happened,” she weeps, “I just don’t understand it.” Graciella had gone to the health center early that morning—skipping a day of work that she could ill-afford—with a kernel of hope in her heart. After all, she had spent the last 12 months putting up the fight of her life. When her husband Hector died coughing blood in the hospital, Graciella thought her tears would never dry. TB is so common in the slum where she lives, that when she herself was diagnosed with what her neighbors called “strong TB” (to her face, at least; behind her back, they whispered “killer TB”), she was too numb to cry. But after a little more than a year of taking a daily, painful injection and swallowing more than 17 tablets—some of which made her vomit, turned her skin dark orange, and left her with convulsions that required her to take even more medicine—Graciella had faith she was due for some good news. Thus she was completely unprepared for the shock that washed over her when her doctor announced that Graciella had “failed” treatment. That drug-resistant tuberculosis was still ravaging her body (that the neighbors might have been right when they murmured about “killer TB”). In spite of all she had invested to be rid of this dreadful disease, there it was, marked on her treatment card with a big black X for all to see: Graciella Llaro, FAILED TREATMENT.