She jerked awake, confused, not sure how long she’d been out. A sharp, putrid scent penetrated her brain.

Smoke.

She choked on the thick, clinging cloud of it and could hardly see. No. No, this wasn’t happening.

Coughing, she pulled her shirt up over her mouth. The smoke had settled over her like a blanket, smothering. She had to get out. She knew that much. Staggering upright, she flew up the stairs, or tried to, but her feet wouldn’t seem to cooperate. Confused, she felt like she moved in slow motion, everything fuzzy and gray so that suddenly she wasn’t sure if this was real, or if she was simply reliving an old nightmare.

There’d been stairs then, too, she remembered in growing panic. Downstairs while her father—

Don’t open the door.

She’d made that mistake twelve years ago, not setting her hands on the door first, just ripping it open. Back then the smoke and flames had overcome her. She’d stood there, hearing her father’s screams, a horrifying, hoarse sound of unthinkable pain, and blindly she’d run straight ahead.

Behind her Joe had called out, tried to catch her.

But she’d just run faster—

And then blackness. Oh God, such all-consuming blackness and despair. She remembered nothing more, nothing until she’d woken up in the hospital two days later.

Now she squeezed her eyes shut, her body fighting the images before she opened them again. The smoke still surrounded her.

This nightmare was real.

The door was hot beneath her pounding fists. It was her only exit but she couldn’t get out, which made her feel intensely claustrophobic. Coughing uncontrollably now, she sank to her knees on the wrong side of the door, torn between sheer terror and fury.

Her stomach felt loose and hollow, and her body shook even as she began to sweat. With her breath lodged in her throat, she set her forehead to her knees and did her best to pretend she was anywhere else. On the pier eating cotton candy and a hot dog. On a mountain bike in Scotland.

In Joe’s arms.

Then her cell phone rang, startling her out of the living terror. Gasping, sobbing with relief, she searched deep in her pockets in her full silky skirt, but by the time she located it, the caller had given up. She saw on the display it had been her mother. “Mom.” She began to hit buttons but had the presence of mind to pound out 9–1–1 instead.

Somehow she gave the dispatcher the information, then sat there huddled against the door, choking on the smoke and panic and memories, running out of air, hoping they made it to her in time.