You don’t notice air.
That’s the trick of it.
You notice storms. You notice fire. You notice the sea when it climbs your front porch steps and helps itself to your living room furniture. But air? Air is invisible. It’s polite. It slips into your lungs without asking for applause.
Until one day it doesn’t feel right.
In Breathless Earth, the disaster doesn’t arrive with sirens. It arrives with numbers. With readings that are just a little off. With scientists who wake up at 3:17 a.m. because...