Winning my first science competition in middle school. Pinning that first ribbon to my lavender wall.

The ice, of course the ice.

And this, right here, this was another one. I should’ve waited for the emotion to settle before I answered Decker. But I didn’t. Now it was a moment. It was a moment, I was sure, that I would hate.

I kept walking, and the light faded farther and farther away. The noise from the party was swallowed by the trees, and all I could hear was the howl of wind, the trees groaning in resistance, the crunch of snow under my shoes. I glanced around and saw dark trees, dark sky, darker shadows. The path in front of me was engulfed in total shadow. A chill ran up my back, through my shoulders, but I shook it off.

It was nothing. Nothing but the absence of light. An empty void. And yet, that void was terrifying. I looked down and walked faster, arms crossed over my chest, and the next time I looked up, I wasn’t on the path anymore. I was walking up the hill, through the trees, toward the dark road. Not my road. But I kept walking because I felt the pull.

And the more I walked—up onto the road, one block in, one block right—the more it grew. Until it wasn’t just a pull but an itch deep inside my brain, buzzing at me, displacing my rage and anger and sadness until all that existed was this need to keep moving. The itch spread down my neck, through my shoulders, down to my fingertips. They started shaking.

I stood in front of a worn bungalow—one of many packed too tightly on the street, like Troy’s teeth. As if summoned from my thoughts alone, Troy appeared from the shadows on the side of the house, leaning against the dirty blue siding. He beckoned me toward him with one arm. I went, partly because he was beckoning me, but mostly because I needed to get closer to the house.

There were so many things wrong with the situation. Troy was there, and I didn’t know why. I was there, and I didn’t know why. Except for the pull. But the only thing I could explain, just like at the hospital, was my hands. So I held them up to Troy, whom I didn’t really know, and whispered, “Something’s wrong with me.”

Troy put a finger to his lips and pulled me into the backyard, which was not really a backyard so much as a patch of grass separating the backs of two homes. He pressed me up against the siding in the most shaded corner. He held me against the house with his body, and took my trembling hands in his. He whispered in my ear, “Nothing’s wrong with you.”

I sucked in the cold night air, trying to calm myself, trying to still my hands, trying to scratch the itch. The air was laced with something, something off. . . . “I smell smoke,” I said, not quite in a whisper.

Troy held his gloved hand over my mouth just as the smoke detectors began wailing inside the house.

I bit him. It wasn’t premeditated. But with his hand on my mouth and the ringing in my ears, all I could think of was my hands tied to the bed and the sleeping pills pushed at me and everyone telling me what to do and how to be, and I could barely take it from the people I knew. I didn’t know Troy. I couldn’t take being pushed around, so I bit him.

He let out a surprised noise and held his gloved hand close to his face. I turned to the house and stood on my toes, peering into the windows. Smoke billowed against the glass in small waves. To the side, close to the wall, was the corner of a wooden headboard. A bed. This was a bedroom. My fingers shook against the glass, which felt so warm in the cold night.

Troy put his arms around my waist and pulled me back. “We have to go,” he said.

“That’s the bedroom. What if someone’s in there?”

“Let’s go.” Troy was strong. I could feel it in his arms. I wouldn’t be able to get free if he didn’t want me to.

So I said, “Okay,” and he let go. Then I ran up the rickety back steps and pulled on the door. But a searing, blinding pain shot through my shaking hand. I jerked my hand back from the burning metal knob and cried out. Inside the back window, flames spilled out from the stove. They caught on the curtains and rose upward. Troy was at my side, whispering into my ear, but I wasn’t listening. Because all I could see was a cane, wrapped in a red ribbon, leaning against the far wall. A long flame stretched toward the cane and grazed the ribbon, and the entire cane ignited. I kicked at the burning door.

“He’s in there. He’s in there!” I screamed.

The yard grew brighter from the flames and the lights from the surrounding houses. People started running toward the house, and I heard sirens in the distance. “There’s nothing we can do,” Troy said, gripping me by the shoulders.

I looked down at my hand, at the bright red circle on my palm, and felt the pain. Only the pain. My fingers were still. The itch was gone. Only the burn remained.