And the voice is now laughter, giddy as something sparks.

Whoosh!

A quick flicker and then the spark goes flying and then there are embers. Embers everywhere, flying up.

I’m in the house now. And I’m in the house then. Somewhere the sound of laughter, whistles, and now applause. “Encore! Encore!” And the air ashen and burnt and sharp.

“Encore, maestro. Encore!”

And then the clouds are in my mouth and I’m tasting metal, kerosene, smoke. A spasm. Coughing. My throat, my whole body convulsing, turning itself inside out to get out of these ash clouds.

There are so many figures now, and they’re dancing—at the party back in Nebraska, and in the library in Scarlett Mills. The figures dancing and hooting and hollering. The flames are gathering and rousing each other and raising, reaching their fingers to the roof.

And now suddenly I’m in the Jeep.

And the not-think-about box is open.

I’m thinking the things I never wanted to remember again.

It is that night. In April.

This was the night of the party.

When Zander who shouldn’t be driving was driving, and when the Jeep, the Jeep that shouldn’t be on the road was swerving, and when the rain was falling in buckets, and then the road curved, and then we were spinning. Careening. Suspended. Across the double line and SMASH in the ditch, with the flames rushing up out of the engine.

And I was trying. What was I trying? I was trying to get Zander to get up. Get up get up get up! And I was yelling at him. I was hitting him but he wasn’t moving. Why is he not moving why is he not moving?

But how could he move with this face like that? How could he move with his face pinned against the wheel like that? How could he move when the steering wheel was keeping him down and his eyes were open and somehow he wasn’t seeing me or hearing me. His eyes were open but they were glass eyes. They were deer eyes. They were trophy eyes. Just like on that wall at the party. Now his eyes were trophy eyes. But not the kind anyone would accept.

And the fire was burning my face, getting closer. I barely squirmed out of my seat, panicking, and I thrust myself out of the burning-up Jeep. And I left. I left him behind. Zander, just like he said I would, just like he was crying that I would as he tore down the road. I was rushing as fast as I could, and all I could think was, this is my fault. I did this. I made him love me and what did I plan to do with his love but leave it behind? In the dirt. In a ditch by the side of the road.

And that’s why I can’t remember.

Don’t you see?

That is why I can’t remember any of those things that happened after that. The cars and the lights, swirling blue and red, the red of the ambulance, the red on everything, over everything, and then the blue of the lights. And that is why I can’t remember the hospital or the kind words or the candles and the flowers and the pats on the back and the packing of clothes and the taking of trains to get to this place and, this place, this place of a cloud city turning to exhaust.