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I flinched.

Milo was the boy on the floor. Milo was the boy who drank the powder. Milo was the boy whose mother sang while monsters watched. Milo was the boy who sat at the table while his mother packed a bag without him.

I wasn’t Milo. I wasn’t. I wasn’t.

Flames seeped under the door at the end of the hall. Small orange tongues licking at the wood, hungry and angry.

My father screamed my name again. This time, it sounded different. Afraid. I had never heard him afraid before.

The bedroom door rattled. He slammed against it from the other side. I stared. Why was it shut? Had I shut it?

I didn’t remember.

The handle jerked. Once. Twice. “Milo, open this fucking door!”

Smoke thickened, pouring down the hall. I coughed. My eyes watered. The heat pressed against my face, and still I stood there, watching the door shake.

My mother was in there with him.

Mom.

I took a step forward. The floor gave a sharp pop beneath me. Heat snapped against my legs. Smoke clawed down my throat. I reached for the door. Then my father screamed, “You useless little freak! Open the door!”

My hand stopped. The boy inside me curled up. The thing inside me smiled. He hit the door again, harder. The wood jumped in the frame. Then, anger rose up, and the heat gripped me.

“You hear me? Open it!”

I backed away. One step. Then another.

My mother had tried to leave. He had killed her for it. Now he wanted me to save him. I laughed again, but there was no sound this time.

Only smoke. Only the house breathing in and out around us. Then the world started missing pieces. The hall disappeared. The kitchen came back. The back door was open. Cold air hit my face.

I was outside. I didn’t remember walking. I didn’t remember opening the door. I didn’t remember leaving my mother inside. I turned around.

The house was burning. The wood was slowly falling apart.

Fire filled the windows, chewing through curtains, walls, and memories. The roof spat sparks into the black sky. Smoke rolled upward.

Someone was screaming inside.

I stood in the yard barefoot, though I didn’t remember losing my shoes. The grass was wet under my feet. My lungs hurt. My hand burned.

My mother’s blue dress flashed in my head.

The shoe in the hall. The bag by the door. The photograph folded in half.

She had been going to leave. She had been going to leave. She had been going to leave.

Sirens came sometime later. Or maybe right away. Time didn’t work anymore.

Blue and red lights broke apart the dark. Men shouted. Boots ran past me. Water hissed. The fire roared back like it was angry they were trying to take its meal away.

Someone wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. I didn’t know who.

A man asked me questions. I stared at the house. “What happened?”His mouth moved again. “What happened inside, son?”

I shook my head.