Donna would be comforted by the idea that I have a target on my back. Random acts of violence terrify people. But tell them the fire next door is a lover’s quarrel or drug related, and they’re relieved. But I know that’s not what Teddy’s getting at.

Teddy leans toward me. “What happened?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I tell him, my throat constricting again. And it’s true. But I hear Michael’s voice, see the look on his face as he left the station.

“What do you remember?” Teddy asks.

I close my eyes.

One moment, I was lying in bed, sipping a glass of wine, trying to fall asleep with visions of identical fraternity boys dancing in my head, and the next, I was awake and on fire.

My throat is so raw it takes enormous effort to swallow and even more to say the next words.

“I heard voices.”

“Do you think—”

But we’re interrupted by the appearance of a man in a white coat at the door.

Teddy sighs. He wants to touch me but can’t decide where to put his hands.

He looks at his shoes. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You better,” I mumble. “Teddy,” I say, and he turns. “Am I still on the case?”

He grimaces. “Later,” he says with a glance at the doctor.

But I know. It’s been three days. I didn’t show up for work on Friday. Jay’s parents arrived on Saturday. And today is Monday. I’ve been replaced. Oliver must be thrilled.

“Ms. Kaplan,” the doctor says as Teddy disappears down the corridor.

The name tag on his coat reads JAMES FISHER, MD, SURGEON AND BURN SPECIALIST.

“How does your breathing feel today?”

“Tight,” I say.

“Chest discomfort? Pressure, fullness, squeezing, pain?”

“Yes.”

“Numbness?”

“I wish.”

He smiles, revealing two small dimples. A lock of gray-blond hair curls around his ears.

“Your left side?”

“Sore.”

“I bet.” He laughs, and I warm to him a little bit.

“Everything itches,” I breathe.

He nods. “Third-degree burns often cause nerve damage. I’d say those are phantom itches. But that doesn’t matter if you go scratching away at your dressings.” Suppressing a grin, he says, “Where does it itch?”

He puts his hand on the side of my ear, a gesture so intimate in this place where my body has been routinely lifted, shuffled, scraped, and bandaged, that something flutters in my stomach as I meet his eye, and then dies as I think of myself from his perspective. All tubes and raw skin. Bodily fluids expelling through a catheter and bedpan. Everything from my blood oxygen levels to my temperature monitored and regulated. Nothing in my control.

“I’m sorry about your hair,” he says, and his fingers are light against my temple. “There were burns on the left side of your scalp.”

“My hair?” I mumble, straining to touch it.