I cough. And I cough and I cough and I cough. And the coughing doesn’t dislodge anything from my lungs, but it does shake a few memories loose.

I’m a little girl – maybe 10 years old – I have bronchitis. This hasn’t prevented my aunt and uncle from chain smoking in our kitchen. From my bedroom, I hear my family talking and laughing at the party. I am alone with my inhaler. It’s my birthday.

My thoughts are thick with narcotics. I can’t stop coughing. I have croup, although I am a young woman. I’m supposed to be sleeping. I hear my college roommate yelling at the residence director. She is livid because I’m sick and our dorm has no heat.

I’m at the salon getting a haircut. The stylist keeps coughing on me, but I don’t notice. Not until she confesses, “Don’t worry, honey. I won’t give you germs. I have lung cancer.” The next time I call for a haircut, the stylist has passed away.