I watched a married woman sell the last thing she owned so her little boy could breathe that night. Ten minutes later 

I opened the bag and removed one inhaler.

Emily stared at it as though I had placed a miracle in my hand.

“How did you—”

“There isn’t time.”

She hesitated only a moment longer before grabbing it. She shook it, attached it to the spacer from her coat pocket, and guided it toward her son.

“Breathe in, Ollie. Good. Again.”

The boy obeyed, his tiny fingers wrapped around hers.

One breath.

Then another.

Then another.