She sputters awake from the nightmares gasping, rasping like there’s still smoke in her lungs. She grabs at her face to remove a mask that isn’t there and claws her way to the edge of the bed like the floor is a life raft. A buoy. A way to stop drowning.

She feels like she’s drowning.

The sheets, abandoned in her wake, are soaked with sweat – night after night, just the same. So, she showers, the water as cold as ice, and closes her eyes lest she see steam rising from her skin. She strips the bed. Turns on the washing machine. Starts over.

Pretends everything is normal.

Nothing is normal.

She can still feel the blast. A wall of fire, headed straight towards her. She remembers the thud of her body, the uncomfortable jolt of her oxygen tank hitting the ground a second before she did. The crumple. The smoke. The smell.

Andy, beside her.

It does nothing to quell the hurt, remembering. Like kindling, it catches and ignites and it spreads until she’s engulfed by it on all sides. The hot heat of fire. The sharp sting of loss. The unbearable burden of grief.