“To make sure you don’t burn the barn down?”

“For that, you have the Germans.”

The glasses clink as Henryk pulls them from the box. Shira doesn’t turn.

“Shira?” Róża fears she is slipping by the minute. Can she even hear?

To Henryk she says, “There can’t be any alcohol left in the cup or else it will burn her. The glass itself will be hot, so—”

“Róża, I don’t think this is safe.”

“Pneumonia is not safe. A high fever is not safe.”

She pulls at Shira’s shoulders, attempting to turn her over. “I need you to lie on your stomach, Shira. That’s it, face turned to the side. Now, we’re just going to cover your mouth to keep you from making a noise.”

Shira accepts the gag, and the raising of her dress, without a fuss. Her compliance nearly breaks Róża.

“We are going to stick cups to your back. They’re going to make you feel better.”

Henryk quickly pins blankets to the loft walls to keep the match light’s flare from showing outside the barn. Then, with a gloved hand, he grips one of the glasses. He pours a splash of vodka and swivels it, attempting to coat the inside of the glass. Róża clamps hold of a cotton ball with a wrench, lights it on fire, then swirls it in the glass. The alcohol flames. Before they can do anything, figure out how to place the cup on Shira’s back, it shatters.

Róża struggles to breathe now, her resolve in bits.

“Maybe it is too dangerous,” Henryk says.

Róża moves aside the shards of glass that landed nearest Shira, then leans her cheek in to touch her forehead, oven hot. If they can’t make this work, what is going to happen to her?

Henryk reads her thoughts. He puts an arm on her shoulder. “We’ll try once more.”

He prepares the second glass and Róża holds a flaming cotton ball inside it. It burns and flares, and the glass darkens to the rim, but it doesn’t shatter. As the flame winks out, Henryk passes the glass to Róża, gloved hand to gloved hand.

She looks at Henryk, who looks back at her, uncertain. Shira’s expression is blank. Róża feels feverish herself, dizzy and hot, but she takes a breath and places the cup on Shira’s back. Shira stiffens only slightly.

Is Róża burning her, yet she is too torpid to react?

“I’m sorry, Shirke. I’m trying to make you well.” She moves the cup in a circular motion until it suctions tight to one spot. “Do you think you can handle two more?”

Shira blinks.