Harv was lying on the top of a three-layer bunkbed on the twentieth floor, 
sharing a small room and a supply of
purified air with a dozen other chronic asthma sufferers. His face was goggled 
into a phantascope, and his lips were wrapped around a thick tube plugged into 
a nebulizer socket on the wall. Vaporized drugs, straight from the matter 
compiler, were flowing down that tube and into his lungs, working to keep his 
bronchi from spasming shut.