The air is warm and stuffy. I crawl on my knees to a pile of pillows and press my back to them, straightening my legs out in front of me. There’s a flashlight standing atop a pile of books. I click it on, examining their spines; stories I know, but don’t remember reading. How odd to be made of flesh, balanced on bone, and filled with a soul you’ve never met.

I pick up her books one by one and read the first page of each. I want to know who she is—who I am. When I’ve exhausted the pile, I find a larger book at the bottom, bound in creased red leather. My immediate thought is that I’ve found a journal. My hands shake as I fold open the pages.

Not a journal. A scrapbook. Letters from Silas.

I know this because he signs each one with a sharp S that almost looks like a lightening bolt. And I know I like his handwriting, direct and distinct. Paper-clipped to the top of each note is a photo—presumably one that Silas has taken. I read one note after another, pouring over words. Love letters. Silas is in love.

It’s beautiful.

He likes to imagine a life with me. In one letter, written on the back of a brown paper sack, he details the way we will spend Christmas when we have our own place: spiked apple cider by the Christmas tree, raw cookie dough that we eat before we get the chance to bake it. He tells me he wants to make love to me with only candles lighting the room so that he can see my body glow in the candle light. The photo paper clipped to the note is of a tiny Christmas tree that looks like it’s in his bedroom. We must have set it up together.

I find another written on the back of a receipt in which he details what it feels like to be inside of me. My face grows warm as I read the note over and over, reveling in his lust. The photo paper clipped to this one is of my bare shoulder. His photos pack a punch—just like his words. They take my breath, and I’m not sure if the part of me I can’t remember is in love with him. I feel only curiosity toward the dark-haired boy who looks at me so earnestly.

I set the note aside, feeling like I’m snooping on someone else’s life, and close the book. This belonged to Charlie. I’m not her. I fall asleep surrounded by Silas’s words, the sprinkling of letters and sentences swirling around in my head until…

A girl drops to her knees in front of me. “Listen to me,” she whispers. “We don’t have much time…”

But I don’t listen to her. I push her away and then she’s gone. I am standing outside. There is a fire burning from an old metal trash can. I rub my hands together to get warm. From somewhere behind me I can hear a saxophone playing, but the sound morphs into a scream. That’s when I run. I run through the fire that was in the trash can, but now it is everywhere, licking the buildings along the street.. I run, choking on smoke until I see one pink-faced storefront that is free of flame and smoke, though everything around it burns. It is a shop of curiosities. I open the door without thought because it is the only place safe from the flames. Silas is there waiting for me. He leads me past bones and books and bottles and takes me to a back room. A woman sits on a throne made of broken mirror, staring down at me with a thin smile on her lips. The pieces of mirror reflect slices of light across the walls where they jiggle and dance. I turn to look at Silas, to ask him where we are, but he’s gone. “Hurry!”

I wake with a start.

Janette is leaning through the slat of space in the closet roof, shaking my foot. “You have to get up,” she says. “You don’t have any more skip days left.”

I am still in the dank attic space. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and follow her down the three shelves to our room. I’m touched she knows I’m out of skip days, and that she cared enough to wake me up. I’m shaking when I reach the bathroom and turn on the shower. I haven’t shaken the dream. I can still see my reflection in the broken shards of her throne.

The fire swims in and out of my vision, waiting behind my eyelids every time I blink. If I concentrate, I can smell the ash above the body wash I’m using, above the sickeningly sweet shampoo I pour into my hand. I close my eyes and try to remember Silas’s words…You are warm and wet, and your body grips me like it doesn’t want me to leave.

Janette pounds on the door. “Late!” she yells.

I hurry to dress and we’re tumbling out the front door before I realize I don’t even know how Janette expects we’re getting to school today. I told Silas to pick me up yesterday.

“Amy should be here already,” Janette says. She folds her arms across her chest and peers down the street. It’s like she can’t even stand to look at me. I pull out my phone and text Silas to let him know not to pick me up. I also check to see if this Amy has texted me, right as a little silver Mercedes whips around the corner.

“Amy,” I say. I wonder if she’s one of the girls I sat with at lunch yesterday. I hardly noticed names and faces. The car pulls to the curb and we walk forward. Janette climbs into the backseat without a word, and after a few seconds of deliberation I open the front door. Amy is black. I stare at her in surprise for a minute before I climb in the car.

“Hey,” she says, without looking over. I’m grateful for her distraction because I have a moment to study her.

“Hi.”

She’s pretty; her hair, which is lighter than her skin, is braided to her waist. She seems at ease with me—not to mention she’s giving my sour sister and me a ride to school. We must be good friends, I decide.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better. Did you figure out what you’re going to do about Silas?” she asks me.