Choking to Death in Detroit: Flint Isn't Michigan's Only Disaster
When it hits her, Cason's lungs fill with mucus while her esophagus walls swell nearly shut. Her diaphragm responds by contracting faster, pressing on her lungs, desperate to catch some air, making her gasp rapidly, violently. Her chest feels like someone is sitting on it, collapsing her sternum toward her spine. Minutes become enemies, and letting two or three pass is too many. So when she forgets to leave her rescue inhaler by her bed, she gropes and crawls down the stairs to find it. It's the sort of thing that no one would consider ordinary—unless you've been living in the industrial suburbs south of downtown Detroit a long time. Then it passes for routine.
