I grew up asthmatic. Before the time of inhalers, my mother would sit with me in the middle of cold, dark nights, at the kitchen table, as I breathed mentholated steam through a mug of hot water and Vicks Vapor Rub. My mom had rigged a system with a mask and tube through a plastic lid she attached to the mouth of the cup with surgical tape—supplies she brought home from the hospital where she worked as an x-ray tech. I imagine she added a strong dose of prayer.