Five days after the catastrophe, Sherburne was allowed out of her house. She went to Dhaka Medical, which had taken in so many of the injured, some now without limbs, some still in life-threatening situations.
She was about to see what she didn't have to in Boston.
She walked into a ward with 53 female patients, their beds pressed together to make room for them all. It was 101 degrees that day, and the electricity was off because of a national grid problem. Some parts of the vast hospital were dark; others parts were dimly lit by emergency generators.
Sherburne wanted to change the patients' dressings, but there wasn't enough bandaging material to do that. So she did what nurses are trained to do. She sat on their beds and comforted them, speaking through a translator.
"How's your pain?" she asked.
"No pain," one said. "Nice to meet you."
For Sherburne, it was another reminder of human resilience.
Each patient mumbled a number. Three. Five. Eight. At first Sherburne didn't understand why.
Then it hit her. They were telling her which floor they had been on when the building hurtled toward the earth.
She reached out and held a woman's hand and noticed they were both wearing the same shade of pink on their nails. They even had identical chips in the polish.
"That's when it stopped seeming American to Bangladeshi and (it) was just a young woman to (another) young woman," Sherburne wrote.
She walked out with the realization that the clothes she was wearing might have been made in one of those factories that collapsed.
She remembers someone asking her if she wanted to see the dead -- the ones who had been brought to hospital but did not survive.
Sherburne declined, politely, but caught a glimpse of a lifeless body being wheeled away. She figured the woman was around her own age.