My youngest has had the flu for about 10 days, so I escape the puke, snot, poop routine and sink down into my tub to relax. As I peer across the frothy bubbles I wonder how many little kids with jerry cans it would take to fill my antique clawfoot tub? It isn’t a question driven by guilt. I am not so foolish as to suppose that denying myself this much-needed pleasure would provide a drink to anyone in a developing country. But I do wonder why I am here, why they are there, and in the year of 2013 what does it really mean to be my brother’s keeper? I gaze at my incredibly white little toes propped against the rim of the tub and realize that Uganda has left its mark on me. I have tan lines on my feet.