I don’t understand the people who are surprised that in their absence, life has gone on without them. For two weeks, I’ve been painfully aware that every second I was in the hospital, teenagers were pumping themselves up to rob convenience stores, men were taking rounds on their wives’ faces, pharmacists were lining customers with so much oxycodone that there’d be at least two ODs by morning, and Jay’s murderer was getting further and further away.

From the outside, my little house looks almost the same. The only indication that anything happened are the thick tire marks in the dead grass and a sheet of plastic covering the upper window. But that’s it. The white oak’s turned copper in my absence. The ivy growing up its trunk has browned along with its leaves, and I’m left feeling shortchanged—like the worst of the fire has been seared across my skin.

My mother sighs and unclips her seat belt.

“It’s not your fault,” she says, misinterpreting my silence. “Things like this just happen.”

I know she means the candles. Everyone seems to have assumed this was a rare moment of negligence. The shards of an empty glass and wine bottle under my nightstand didn’t help.

The feeling grows that the house has betrayed me.

“I’d rather go in alone,” I tell her.

Her eyes narrow as she tries to discern whether this is an insult, a product of my infinite stubbornness, or something else.

“I need to do this alone,” I say, meeting her gaze for a fleeting moment. Playing the victim doesn’t sit well with me, but my mother sneaks a look at the burned side of my face and nods.

“Fine,” she murmurs. She pulls a pile of papers out of her bag. “Shout if you need anything.”

I stride across the lawn, repeating the list of things I have to find: driver’s license, auto registration, checkbook, passport, birth certificate, credit cards, and things to do: record damaged goods, inspect walls, ceilings. I’ve been instructed not to dawdle. Informed there are unseen particles waiting to do damage to my lungs. But when I open the door, I stop and take a breath.

The first thing I notice is that it doesn’t smell like my house. The smoke has spread from my bedroom to the cooler areas below. It’s nosed its way through the pipes, smothered my walls, and left fingerprints of its destruction throughout. Mold in the drywall, water seeping into the insulation and wood. But I’m not looking for tongues of smoke and bubbling wallpaper, I’m scanning for footprints. Wondering where the forensic examiner and the crime scene tape are. I slip my phone from my bag and take photos. I walk in a straight line, careful to disturb as little as possible.