“Be bold, child,” she’d say when she found me pressed into the corner of a classroom, head down, dragged to campus on a teacher workday, pretending to do my fifth-grade homework while my mother’s students filtered into their seats. “Nothing is gained by making yourself small.” And then with a wink: “Pay attention. You might learn something.” And I did—but not about German. Who was the Erlkönig? What did he symbolize? No idea. But I was pretty sure the student wearing the Glands T-shirt was doing his math homework and hadn’t slept the night before. And that the girl with glasses and dark eye shadow had a crush on him. Pay attention—that’s the first rule of detective work.

Today, Amina doesn’t miss a beat.

“Marlitt,” she says, when she peeks her head into my mother’s office.

Like my parents, she wasn’t keen on me joining the police force, and I experience the same flash of guilt I always feel when I see her. She knows I’m not a hugger but envelops me in her fleshy arms anyway.

“Your badass points just increased exponentially,” she whispers in my ear.

Pressed against her chest, I know what she’s trying to tell me. That she’s glad I’m safe, that I survived.

I catch a glimpse of my mother’s face above her shoulder and suddenly realize how hard this must have been on her—the phone call, the fire, the hospital—on both of them, really.

Amina releases me and turns to my mother, who’s finally looked up from her screen.

“Pour us some of that liquid gold,” she demands, and both laugh, my mother quietly, Amina with her head thrown back, exposing the undersides of her teeth.

As I sip my own cup, I imagine them as junior faculty members, this being an ongoing private joke they’ve shared for years.

“And so?” Amina asks, sitting next to me and leaning forward to take in my burns.

My mother shifts in her seat. We’ve discussed insurance forms and claims and documentation but haven’t talked about what happened. I think she’s embarrassed for me.

I shrug. “They say I fell asleep with the candles burning.”

Amina sips her coffee and looks at me evenly. “Ridiculous,” she says firmly.

Something in my chest tightens and then releases. I’ve been wrestling with that very same thought. It is ridiculous. The candles. So unlike me, it shouldn’t have even been in the realm of possibility. But to acknowledge this fact means to acknowledge the voices. My suspicions about Kap-O’s involvement. And I’m not ready to grapple with either yet.

We look at each other.

Then Amina glances at her watch and turns to my mother. “We better get going if we want a good spot.”