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When I was twelve the tree was a sapling, just a tiny sprout that tickled my lungs when I laughed. The doctor said it was probably asthma and prescribed an inhaler. My mother made me use it twice a day, even though we both knew it wouldn’t help.

By high school, the tree had grown enough that I could feel its branches pressing against my ribs. I had to sleep on my back, otherwise the leaves would rustle and keep me awake. Sometimes I’d cough up small twigs, which I’d hide in my pocket and throw away when no one was looking.

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