I took a deep breath, feeling the tight skin of my chest pull against my ribs.

“You were asleep on the beanbag chair, Chloe.”

“You had a high fever that night, and the medicine made you groggy.”

“I tried to wake you, but you wouldn’t stand up.”

Chloe’s hands dropped from her mouth.

She looked at Mother, then at Father, her eyes searching their faces for a denial.

Neither of them looked at her.

Mother stared down at the shattered glass on the tiles, her shoulders shaking.

“I grabbed your arms,” I said to my sister.

“You were heavy, and the room was filling with heat.”

“I dragged you across the carpet toward the service hallway.”

“The ceiling was dropping pieces of burning plaster.”

“One of those pieces fell directly on my shoulder.”

I touched the puckered, uneven skin near my armpit.

“It caught my nightshirt on fire.”

“But I did not let go of your wrists.”

“I dragged you down the back stairs, through the kitchen, and out onto the wet grass.”

“My back was burning the entire time.”