I stood up slowly. My legs were rubber. I felt along the wall, sniffed toward the vent. I sniffed by the toilet and pushed my head into the sink near the drain. Nothing. I stretched up near the fan. I couldn’t catch a clear strand of it. I hunched down on the floor and poked out the T-shirts. The blanket on the other side was missing. Air pulled inward. The biting sting of something burning.

The hairs on the back of my neck lifted up. My heart thumped and I could feel the pulse in the tips of my fingers. It didn’t make sense. The smoke didn’t smell like Carl’s fire. Or smell like burning wood or dead leaves or even old tires. It stank like the time I put a plastic bowl on the hot stove.

My chest got tighter and tighter.

The fan above me stopped whirring. Silence wasn’t hiding underneath it though. Footsteps. Outside. Stomping past. Yelling, maybe. It had to be Gloria. She was running around the house. Or else my brain was creating things.

Maybe there was no smoke. Maybe I was going crazy.

I could be going crazy.

How could I not be going crazy?

I was going crazy.

That made sense. Crazy.

Does crazy ever make sense?

I told myself there was no smoke. There was only cement and linoleum and blackness and beans and gray-tape shoes and a vent that my fingers couldn’t reach.

I held the edge of the sink. I climbed up onto the toilet and slowly lifted my hands toward the ceiling. My head wobbled on my neck. I lowered my hands. Waited, then tried again. It was warmer up there. Much warmer.

Why would the ceiling be warm?

What would cause the ceiling to get—

Awareness cut through me like a stick to my back. I tumbled off the toilet. My knees buckled. The house was on fire. That was the smoke. That was the heat. That was the commotion outside.

I hit the door, but my arms were so tired it was hard to lift them. “I’m in here! I’m in here!” My yell was barely a whisper.

There was scraping near the vent. I tried to yell again. I heard the faintest clanking, like rocks banging together. “Hey! Hey!” Scratching. Someone was scratching at the vent.

Then barking. Chicken was barking. I could hear him! Chicken! “Chicken!” I cried as loudly as I could. “It’s me, boy! I’m in here!”

I screamed, but my voice just dissolved inside my throat. Then the scratching and the barking stopped. Chicken had gone away.

I sat back against the wall. The burning smell was growing stronger. It stung my nostrils. Clung to my throat. No one was rushing down the stairs. No one was opening the lock and pulling me out. No one was hurrying me to fresh air and safety.