The smell. That damn smell. It seeps under his skin, makes his lungs clench with every inhale. Somewhere, bonfires are burning – they're burning leaves. Evan wipes his damp palms against his jeans, feeling the smell worm its way inside, pushing him out of his own body.

He wishes he could stop breathing right now.

Evan sits on a dark blue plastic chair in the art room – the scent of burnt leaves mixes with the paint, creating the illusion of burning walls swallowed by flames. He held his breath.

Across from him sits Mr. Newell – the college psychologist. His hands are neatly clasped, his face a mask of calm confidence that practically screams – "Tell me all about the shit that’s eating your soul alive, and I totally won’t judge you." Evan has never wanted to talk about his shit with Mr. Newell.

His gaze sweeps across the gathered students, like he's selecting a victim for public execution. At least, that’s how it feels to Evan – he doesn’t particularly care what the other miserable assholes in this room think. Not like he ever talks to them to know for sure.

Mr. Newell’s gaze lands on Evan, and his stomach flips. Here it comes. Fuck.

"Evan, would you do us the honor of starting our session today? Not only do we have some new faces joining us" – he gestures toward a new student – "but it’s also been a while since you last shared how you’ve been feeling. What’s been weighing on your heart?" His fingers tap rhythmically against an open notepad.

Evan tilts his head slightly to the side, resting his cheek against his fist, elbow propped on his knee.

Oh sure, Doc. I’m just DYING to talk about how my house burned to the fucking ground with my parents inside. Absolute dream scenario for any sane guy.

The memories hit like smoke – thick, suffocating. That night, Evan had been high as hell. He'd come home from a shitty black metal concert by some local band whose name he doesn't even remember now, crashing into bed well past midnight, limbs pleasantly numb, head wrapped in a warm cotton cocoon. His eyelids felt swollen, heavy with liquid heat, begging to close – so he let them.

Right before he slipped into unconsciousness, he thought he smelled smoke – sharp, acrid, curling into his dreams. He didn't give a fuck. Evan figured it was just some surreal part of his chemically-induced trip. He didn't wake up. He didn't check.

Faulty wiring shorted out like a goddamn Christmas light – fire swallowed their house like a ravenous demon. A beam collapsed over his parents' room – they slept through it until it was too late. Evan woke up in bed to the sound of it. The sound of fire. Roaring. Merging with the screams of his father. His mother. Screams laced with coughing, crawling under his skin like insects, hollowing out his sanity with every agonized cry.

He couldn't even move – his body, drugged up and full of smoke, gave up without a fight.

Evan gathered his things and left the room in silence, as always. There was no one to say goodbye to. He walked through the dimly lit college halls – the ceiling lights were only on every other row to save energy. Not like anyone besides their little club of traumatized fuckups was even here – no point in wasting power on a bunch of Friday night whiners.

He kept moving forward, fishing a crumpled cigarette from his pocket – when movement caught his attention. Just barely, at the edge of his vision. But after the fire, Evan had started noticing everything around him. A nervous habit turned second nature.

By the doors stood Aylin Hay – that Aylin from Rose's group – was full-on arguing with someone. Only the person she was talking to was completely invisible from this angle. Fuck.

Evan cursed under his breath – this could be absolutely nothing, or it could finally shed some light on that murder. And he hated that he was interested.

Even worse? He was stuck here with the new girl from therapy, who could do absolutely anything to fuck this up for him. And he was not about to let that happen.

He grabbed her wrist abruptly, leaning down.

"Listen up, Cotton Candy. You're gonna keep your mouth shut and stay put, alright? No screaming, no sudden movements, no running off to your car or the bus stop or any of that bullshit. Just melt into the fucking wall."

He was already moving toward the door, pushing it open as quietly as possible.