WHEN IT RAINS

small room rang with voices instead of quiet. I close my eyes against the tears, and for a moment I’m back in Donnelly.

August watches me through the ash. It’s that first summer, and a forest fire ravages the mountains mere miles away. Donnelly burns and the fire rages in the tent beside me: sharp plucks of guitar strings, a hiss between teeth, a male voice cursing. Leave me alone. He departs for Ireland in a week. Him, my closest friend. Gone. I cannot bear to lose this: his hollow voice rising to meet the chords, the taut lips of a second friend as she stands beside me, our patient hover just out of reach. I’m not alone, but I feel it—feel so very small as I tip my chin to stare at the bloody sun glaring through the clouds. You and I, I want to tell it, we’re watching the world burn.

And then I blink. Donnelly is gone. My friend has left for Ireland and returned more distant than when he was away. Candles are extinguished without me. See you soon. Silence buzzes as the call drops off. The phone is a rock in my hand as I stare out the window, and the breath heaves out of me, a hollow call to an empty room. We’re watching it all burn down.