But I know before I open my eyes that the house is burning. The wood above my head cracks and splinters. The heat laps at my skin. Somewhere a dog is barking. But it’s the smell—acrid and sulfuric—of singed hair that makes me squeeze my eyes tighter. My hair is on fire. I am on fire.

Ich brenne, I think without knowing what it means.

“Hilfe,” I scream, and the windows shatter.

“Hilfe,” I yell again, batting away the flames with my eyes still closed. Choking on smoke. Rolling, because somewhere a voice instructs, stop, drop, roll, stop, drop, roll. My body is slick. Sheets and skin indistinguishable.

I hear voices. Somewhere in the living room below are low and urgent whispers. There’s a crash followed by harsh laughter. The door slams, and I split my eyes open.

White-hot flames devour the edges of the room and sear my corneas. Thick clouds of smoke deepen below the ceiling. The air tastes like leather and gunpowder, pine, and camphor oil. I swallow mouthfuls of burning clothes. The shapes of my dresser and mirror shift and slide out of place. A wineglass dances like a shadow and then explodes. Nothing is where it should be. Darkness smothers me again as I feel for the edge of the mattress.

“Ich bin hier,” I yell, the words meaningless to my own ears. “Hier oben. Hilfe.” My head is filled with smoke. Mouth dry with ash.

I roll off the bed, still tangled in paisley sheets.

And then nothing.

PART II

Nine

Monday, November 18, 8:00 A.M.

When I wake, Michael’s warning is ringing in my ears and my arms are restrained to the plastic sides of a narrow hospital bed.

Somewhere beyond his voice, I hear splintering wood and a dog barking. I smell smoke and burning hair.

Faint traces of a dream cling to me. A dark stage. Technicolor tubes hanging from the ceiling, and I’m jerked from side to side like a marionette.

Nothing makes any sense.

“Do you know what day it is?”

I roll my head toward the sound.

A nurse stares down at me. She’s wearing a surgical mask, and I’m lying in a thin gown that out of the slit of my right eye blooms and swirls with pink polka dots. Tubes and wires stretch and twist from me to various bags and devices. As if from underwater, I hear steady beeping, heavy breathing, and a metal cart rattling down a long hallway.

“They’re roses,” the nurse says, adjusting the bag attached to the metal stand at my shoulder and pointing to the design flickering on my gown.

My eyes roll from the fabric to the nurse. She’s wearing crisp green scrubs like an army uniform. Her hair’s cropped close to her skull, and she moves with a practiced haste.

“You can call me Nurse Danae.”