“I’m not willing to find out.” She took the matches from my hands and lit both with one strike, like Granddad used to light his cigars. She handed me one, kept the other to herself, and smiled.

“Together, okay?”

“Always.”

“And always.”

We stood hand in hand as the fire spread along the gasoline, deeper into the warehouse. The flames looked like sprinters stuck in a race together, rushing down the lines, and it was fascinating. We stood there until the fire roared so loudly, I could cough without anyone noticing—

And then I heard someone else cough too.

The smoke swirled around us, making shapes and nightmarish visions, but the coughing became louder and louder. It clawed at me, like I could feel it in my own throat, like I was suffocating on the hot air too.

I open my eyes and find the room is bathed in light. It’s dawn. It’s well past dawn. The lights in our room are on, because no one thought to flip the timer switch when they left us.

And the coughing hasn’t stopped.

I reach for my throat. Breathe in deeply and savor the cool air. Sit up.

In the bed next to mine, Leah is coughing continuously. She’s thrashing around, and I don’t understand how she can still be asleep.

I move. Out of my own bed and two steps to hers. I crouch down next to her and reach for her hand. She always wakes when I touch her.

Today she doesn’t.

I squeeze her hand. Rub circles with my thumb and feel her fingers claw around mine. I reach up and touch her cheek because she keeps coughing and shaking.

She’s as hot as the warehouse was. She’s radiating heat. And when I pull my hand away from her cheek, my fingers come back wet.

Red.

Bloody.

Her eyes spin rapidly beneath her lids, and she’s twisting and turning away from me. She coughs again, and a bit of spittle lands on my face. A thin line of bright-red blood trickles from the corner of her mouth toward the pillow.

I grab her shoulders and shake hard to wake her up. Desperation grasps me and tumbles out of me, and I’m whimpering. I don’t know how to make the sound make sense. I don’t know how to stop.

She. Still. Won’t. Wake.

Leah. Leah. Leah.

She stops thrashing. The trickle of blood stems. Her eyes still. Her hands fall limp to her side. Briefly, I’m convinced she’s stopped breathing too. In my head, I scream.

She gasps like her lungs have forgotten how to take oxygen from the air, like she’s drowning on dry land.

And she stills again.

I want to pound her chest. I want to shake her. I want her to wake up, because she promised me always and always, and I’m so terrified, I can hardly remember how to breathe myself. I want to scream.

I do the only thing that makes sense to me. I reach down and hug her, as close as I can, and hold her because I refuse to let her slip away. She doesn’t struggle, but when she coughs, her entire body racks, and the bed around her is stained with red.