Abstract

During the coldest winter of my life, I breathe on my fingers to give them temporary relief from numbness. They come to life momentarily, and I lean down to puff on a cigarette again. The cold hurts my bones and has gotten inside of me in a way that I have never experienced before, even in my Midwestern childhood. I tilt my head back and blow the smoke out of an open window. There’s something thrilling about smoking indoors, and something deeply uncomfortable that I don’t want to face about smoking inside of a hospital.I am standing in a hallway between wards of a Chinese hospital in the outskirts of Beijing. I’ve been here for weeks but have lost track of the days in a pleasantly disorienting way, almost like...