Two weeks later Angela sat in her office, organizing her emails into the usual 'junk' and 'not junk' piles.

Her inbox pinged with a new email. From: Fareeha Amari. Re: Ending our sessions.

In all her years of practicing therapy, Angela had never—never—given up on a patient. She believed strongly that every problem was solvable, every emotional hurdle surmountable. If a genuine desire for growth existed, so did hope.

The message from Fareeha was long and heartfelt. She deleted it.

She did not deserve a word.

Angela closed her MacBook and opened her desk drawer. She pulled out a set of shot glasses, a handle of Goldschläger, and a faded photograph. It was a black and white snapshot of herself and another woman, their bodies tangled together, lips almost touching. In black ink, across the bottom: La lumière de mon coeur. 11/21.

Angela unscrewed the handle, poured the liquor, and raised her glass in a silent toast.

As she downed the shot—and another—and another, the calendar on her MacBook blinked the date. 11/21.

The fire spread quickly.

It started with the candles. A spark of flame leapt onto the curtains and they went up in twin columns of fire. Burning debris spilled onto the plants. They ignited and the fire hit the carpet and gobbled the thread and groaned a loud groan from everything it was consuming. Thick, roiling plumes of smoke—the miasma of death—rose to the ceiling, choking the life out of the air.

Angela dozed at her desk. An bottle of schnapps bumped against her foot; a photograph dangled loosely from her hand.

She was on the deck of a ship. She was reclining on a lounge chair and reading a book.

Someone, somewhere, was grilling hot dogs.

The sun was hot...

All at once the ship reeled and flipped over and Angela awoke with a spasm. The floor lurched beneath her. Heat pressed down from all sides. Pain flared inside her lungs, causing her to sputter and cough so intensely that tears streamed down her cheeks.

She was being carried, she realized, groggily.

She lay across someone's shoulders, someone who wore a mask and a helmet and had reflective strips on their jacket. A firefighter. Other bodies milled vaguely around them, faceless shapes in the smoke-choked darkness.

Her head swam. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

The pressure woke her.

Wheezing and hacking, Angela's eyes flew open. Her sternum ached. Her everything ached.

Someone leaned over her, gloved hands pressed against her chest, mid-motion. The firefighter.

"Thank god," they said, voice muffled by the mask. They placed a hand on her back, helped her sit up. "Can you tell me your name?"

Angela opened her mouth, only to be seized by a violent fit of coughing. Her body shook with the force of it. When the fit subsided, she rasped, "Angela."

"Angela, can you tell me what happened?"

"Fire," she said hoarsely.

"Good. Angela, are there other people in the building?"

"I don't—I don't know…"

"You don't know?"

Angela closed her eyes. Thinking was difficult. "No. I'm the only one who…" She trailed off. Speaking was difficult, too. Her tongue felt leaden.

"The only one who what?"

"Works that late." She looked around blearily. She was sitting on the sidewalk, surrounded by flashing lights and rushing people and guttering vehicles. "There's no one else inside..."

The firefighter's shoulders sagged. Their relief was palpable. "Angela," they said. Their voice had hardened. "You almost died. Are you aware of that?"

"I… yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Well—I mean—"

"I warned you about those candles,"—anger mounted in their voice—"I warned you—"

"I—"

"What the hell were you thinking? Drinking on your own? Falling asleep?"

"Who—"

"You could have died!"

Angela stared. "Fareeha?"

The firefighter tore off the mask. The udjat under her eye glistened through a sheen of sweat. "You endangered your life," Fareeha said furiously, "the lives of innocent people—"

"I was the only one in the—"

"I don't care! You almost died!"

She closed her eyes. Everything was fucked. Everything was completely and utterly fucked. "Maybe I wanted to."

"What?"

"Maybe I wanted to," she repeated. The words spilled out, slurring together. "Why do you think I drink alone? Go to bars alone? Eat alone, sleep alone—do every goddamn thing alone—"

"Angela—"

"Hazard a guess!"

Fareeha stared. "I don't..."

"I have nothing, Fareeha." She lowered her chin. "I have no one."

Silence. Her temples throbbed. She was drunk. She was drunk and she had said those things and she had meant them.

More silence. Then—warmth.

Angela opened her eyes. Fareeha touched her hand, gazing into her eyes, her expression ineffable. They shared a breath, a heartbeat.

Then—

A crowd of paramedics swarmed Angela, breaking them apart. She was led toward a stretcher, a blanket thrown round her shoulders.

They locked eyes again, through the crowd, and were separated.

Angela picked her way through the rubble.

Three weeks ago, her greatest concern had been a difficult client. Now her entire practice was gone, burned to ash.

She touched the crumbling mantle of the fireplace. The windows were blown out, her books scorched to ash. Solemn wonder settled in her stomach. All those hours spent redecorating, all that money wasted…

A profound sense of loss engulfed her. The pain was bone-deep and unyielding. She stood there, waiting for the moment to pass. Sometimes that was all you could do.

"I thought you might be here."

She turned. Fareeha leaned against the door frame, wearing her leather jacket.

"Fareeha," she said. "You shouldn't be here. We shouldn't..."

Fareeha stepped inside. Something crunched under her boot: a shard of clay, a pile of soot. "How are your lungs?"

"Fareeha..."

"How are they?"

She paused. "They're fine."

"A different office could be nice. Perhaps this was a good thing."

"Perhaps." Another pause. "I never got to thank you, did I?"

"That doesn't matter."

"Of course it does." She touched her desk, blackened beyond recognition. "Thank you, Fareeha. You saved my life."

Fareeha averted her gaze. "You're welcome."

"Do you still feel nothing?"

"Do you?"

Their eyes met.

"I don't know," Angela admitted. "I haven't… processed."

"Me neither."

They gazed at the scorched remains of her office. Then Fareeha said, quietly: "What happened in there?"

"You know what happened." Angela picked her fingers off her desk, examined them. They were covered in dirt, soot. "I got drunk. I fell asleep. The curtains caught fire."

"No." Fareeha stepped forward. She held something in her hand—the photograph. "What really happened?"

Angela looked at the photo, then at Fareeha. Emotion rose within her, deep and profound. Stop. And just like that, the tears stopped, lodged somewhere between her heart and throat.

Fareeha wordlessly handed her the photograph, and did not press the issue. "So," she said, clearing her throat. "How about that sex, huh?"

"Sorry?"

"Oh God. Nothing. Nevermind."

Angela chuckled. Fareeha appeared disgruntled. "Wow, you know, thanks for taking this seriously—"

"I enjoyed it, Fareeha."

"You—you did?" She sounded hopeful. "And was it—was it just sex for you?"

She exhaled. "I'm not sure what it was, exactly. But sex was only a part of it. I think."

"You think?"

Angela smiled, wryly. "Was it just sex for you?"

"No."

Neither of them seemed sure of what to do next.

Finally Fareeha said, "Well—you know. Since we're not professionally involved anymore… would you like to join me for coffee?"

"I would."

Fareeha beamed.

As they exited the office, she turned to face Angela. "And you're wrong, you know.

"Oh?

"You don't have no one, at least not anymore." Fareeha was smiling. "You have me."