“You do?”

“Yeah. You get older, and when you get together, instead of talking about the people you know and the things you used to do, you can just talk about life, about books and movies and the world, and you’ve grown up and they’ve grown up and all the little petty shit you used to fight about as kids doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Right,” I say. “Exactly.”

We’ve been sitting out on the balcony for a long time now. I have a blanket wrapped around my shoulders to keep me from freezing, but Raylan is just wearing his normal button-up shirt.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask him.

“Nah,” he says. Then after a minute, he grins and admits, “Actually yeah, I’m pretty fuckin’ cold.”

We go back into the warmth of the apartment, closing the sliding glass door behind us.

Raylan and I linger in the living room, a strange kind of tension between us now.

“I guess I’ll go to bed,” I say.

“Good night.” Raylan nods.

I go into my room, brush my teeth, and slip under the covers.

But it’s a long time before I actually fall asleep. I lay there restless and confused, wondering why I felt so relaxed on the balcony, but so troubled now.

I wake to someone jerking me out of bed.

The air is thick with black smoke, so thick that I’m hacking and coughing, and my eyes are streaming with tears. I can’t pull in a breath.

“Get down!” Raylan barks, pulling me down low to the carpet.

It’s a little easier to breathe down here, but not much.

Raylan is tying one of his t-shirts around my face, making a makeshift bandanna. I can hear sharp cracking and popping sounds, and it’s so hot that sweat is pouring down my skin.

“What’s happening!” I rasp. My throat feels raw and choked, even with the t-shirt over my face.

I can’t see anything. The smoke and heat are getting worse by the second.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Raylan says. He’s yanking the blankets off my bed, and the sheets too.

He throws a blanket over both of us and pulls me along, staying low to the floor.

As we leave my bedroom, we’re met with a solid wall of fire. The front door, the entryway, and the kitchen are engulfed in flame. Floor to ceiling it rages, spreading out into the living room.

The heat is immense, indescribable. I can’t even look at it or it burns my eyes. My body is screaming at me to get away, but there’s nowhere to go.

“We’re trapped!” I gasp out.

Grimly, doggedly, Raylan pulls me toward the balcony.

“Hold on,” he says, unlatching the sliding glass door.

I don’t know what he’s trying to prepare me for, but as he yanks open the door and shoves me out, the cool night air rushes into the apartment. The influx of oxygen gives the fire a new breath. The flames roar across the ceiling and throughout the room, igniting the rest of my apartment in an instant. Fire billows out, hitting us like a wave.

The comforter Raylan threw over our heads catches fire. Raylan throws it off, and I watch it tumble end over end, burning like a torch as it falls the twenty-eight floors down to the street below.

Using the sheet to protect his hand, Raylan forces the glass door shut again, but I can see the heat has singed the hairs all along his arm. The glass and metal are already hot to the touch, like a fireplace grate. The door won’t hold for long. And we’re trapped way up here on this tiny balcony, with no fire escape.

I’m trying not to panic. I’m still hacking and coughing, and so is Raylan. His whole face is dark with smoke, cut by the tracks of sweat running down his skin.

We’re going to burn to death. We’re trapped. The fire is going to burst through the glass any second. No fire truck can reach up here. I don’t understand how the fire spread so fast through the apartment. I don’t understand what’s happening.

I can hear distant sirens, but not the fire alarm itself. The roar and crackling of the flames are too loud. I never knew how loud fire could be.

Raylan is tying my bedsheet around the balcony railing. I don’t understand why.

“Get on my back!” he shouts to me. His voice is hoarse and choked with smoke. His eyes are bloodshot, but the irises still gleam bright blue against his sooty face. It’s the only part of him that still looks familiar. Still, I don’t understand his plan.

“What?” I gasp back.

“GET ON MY BACK!”

He grabs my hand and wraps my arms around his neck. I’m only wearing a silk camisole and shorts, with bare feet. He’s shirtless in boxer shorts, but his feet are stuffed into his boots at least.

We’re both so sweaty and filthy that it’s hard to hold onto his neck.

And I just realized he’s climbing over the railing.

“ARE YOU INSANE?” I shriek.

We’re twenty-eight fucking floors up in the air. So high up that you can barely see the streets way down below us. So high that the frigid November wind is blowing hard against us.

If we slip and fall, we’ll fall for five or six seconds before we hit the pavement. And when we land, our bodies won’t just break—they’ll explode.

“If we don’t get off this balcony we’re dead!” Raylan shouts back.

I look at the glass doors, barely holding back the raging flames. Even as I watch, the glass begins to crack and warp.

“Oh my god . . . ” I whisper.

I cling onto Raylan’s neck, my legs wrapped around his waist from behind.

“Don’t choke me,” he says.

I try to relax my grip just a little, while still holding on tight.

He swings his leg over the railing, gripping the bedsheet with both hands.

I’m dangling over bare, empty space, holding onto his back.

Raylan starts to lower us down, going hand over hand on the sheet.

The fabric is taut and straining under our combined weight. I can see his arms rigid with strain, and his hands gripping the slippery material. His fingers leave sooty prints on the white sheet. His knuckles are pale and tight.

I can’t watch. I squeeze my eyes shut, holding onto him with all my might. I can feel his shoulders and back trembling with the strain of carrying our weight.

Raylan’s hands slip and we drop two feet before he catches his grip again. I bite back my scream, eyes still tight shut. I can hear the fabric starting to tear.

“Almost there . . . ” Raylan grunts.

I hazard a look.

We’re down at the level of the balcony below us, but we’re still hanging over open air. The balcony is recessed. We can’t quite reach the railing.

“I’m going to swing us. You have to grab it,” Raylan mutters, jaw clenched tight with strain.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know if I can.” It’s taking all my strength just to hold onto his back. We’re both slippery with sweat and smoke.

“You can do it,” Raylan says in his deep, calm voice. “I know you can.”

He kicks his legs to swing us out and in. The movement is horrible. It makes my stomach clench up. Holding on tight to his neck with my right arm, I reach with my left. My fingers slip helplessly across the slick metal railing. I miss.

“I can’t get it!” I cry.