I pause, thinking.

“Sometimes she used to annoy me, because she could be childish, too. Too passive, too gentle, too eager to please my parents. Maybe I was jealous. She’s so likable and I know I’m . . . ”

“What?” Raylan says.

“A lot,” I say.

Raylan laughs.

“But anyway, she grew up, moving out of my parents’ house, getting married. She’s always been creative, and she’s been making these ballets that are just wild and gorgeous. I don’t know shit about dance, but they really are beautiful. And I respect that. I don’t know—maybe it was just both of us getting older. But we seem to have more to talk about now.”

“I feel that way, too,” Raylan says. “With my siblings.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You get older, and when you get together, instead of talking about the people you know and the things you used to do, you can just talk about life, about books and movies and the world, and you’ve grown up and they’ve grown up and all the little petty shit you used to fight about as kids doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Right,” I say. “Exactly.”

We’ve been sitting out on the balcony for a long time now. I have a blanket wrapped around my shoulders to keep me from freezing, but Raylan is just wearing his normal button-up shirt.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask him.

“Nah,” he says. Then after a minute, he grins and admits, “Actually yeah, I’m pretty fuckin’ cold.”

We go back into the warmth of the apartment, closing the sliding glass door behind us.

Raylan and I linger in the living room, a strange kind of tension between us now.

“I guess I’ll go to bed,” I say.

“Good night.” Raylan nods.

I go into my room, brush my teeth, and slip under the covers.

But it’s a long time before I actually fall asleep. I lay there restless and confused, wondering why I felt so relaxed on the balcony, but so troubled now.

* * *

I wake to someone jerking me out of bed.

The air is thick with black smoke, so thick that I’m hacking and coughing, and my eyes are streaming with tears. I can’t pull in a breath.

“Get down!” Raylan barks, pulling me down low to the carpet.

It’s a little easier to breathe down here, but not much.

Raylan is tying one of his t-shirts around my face, making a makeshift bandanna. I can hear sharp cracking and popping sounds, and it’s so hot that sweat is pouring down my skin.

“What’s happening!” I rasp. My throat feels raw and choked, even with the t-shirt over my face.

I can’t see anything. The smoke and heat are getting worse by the second.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Raylan says. He’s yanking the blankets off my bed, and the sheets too.

He throws a blanket over both of us and pulls me along, staying low to the floor.