I’m coughing, choking. Every breath sears my throat and rasps like sandpaper at my lungs. Fire licks hungrily at walls, furniture, equipment. Smoke is everywhere: thick, black, and toxic. The flames hiss, crackle, and roar.
But nothing masks the screams.
I fear I’ve been reliving it aloud, because the cop seated across the table glances at the wall with the one-way glass. Following his eyes, I catch my own reflection. That slump-shouldered, expressionless figure seems at least twice my thirty years.
The cop’s look asks, “Do we let him keep talking or read him his rights?”
My rights. I try to care. Only the flames and smoke—and the screaming—are real to me.
Maybe I overlooked some signal. Maybe the cop made up his own mind. He begins reciting, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can...”
No matter my rights, I must remain silent. I dare not let anyone even suspect, or it will all have been for naught.
The horror once more washes over me, untouched by conviction I could not have done anything else. Again memories obliterate the present.
I’m in the warehouse. I feel the scorching heat, and I hear the screams, and I smell—
Convulsively, I throw up.