>I take out a strike-anywhere match and hold it against the box.
>Should I do it?
>Yes. Do it.
>I strike the match, but it doesn't light. Try again.
>I light the match. Nothing happens. I bring it closer to my wrist and then it goes up, all over me, eating through me everywhere. I can't breathe. I'm screaming, “Craig! Craig!”
>I fall down. I'm going to die. I'm going to find out what death is like. I'm going to know. But nothing's happening.
>This hurts too much. I need to stop it. I need to get up. I stand. I don't know how I stand, but I do, and I turn on the shower. I'm breathing water and smoke. I unlock the door and open it. My hand is all black. I walk out. There's Craig with Rusty, our dog, next to him. They have the same expression on their faces.
>Craig yells something and runs downstairs. I think he's calling 911. I'm following him. He hands me the phone and runs off. There's a woman on the phone asking me questions. I try to tell her what's happened, but my voice sounds choked and brittle. There's something wrong with my voice.
>The woman on the phone says the fire trucks and ambulances are on their way. Somehow she knows my address. Craig is gone now, gone to get Mom, and Rusty is hiding somewhere. Smoke is coming from the bathroom upstairs and I can see that the whole room has turned black. I look down and see my flesh is charred and flaking and the glow-in-the-dark boxer shorts are burnt into my skin.
>The woman on the phone says everything is going to be all right, and I believe her. She has a nice voice. She keeps asking me if I'm still on fire and I say, “I don't think so.”
>I'm walking around the kitchen, waiting for the ambulance to come. I can see my reflection in the microwave. Where's my hair? Where did my hair go? Is that my face?
>We used to put marshmallows in the microwave. We used to watch them get bigger and bigger and then shrink down.
Fire bad