Page 17 of Up In Flames

“No.” The single word gutters in my throat.

They died before they could see me graduate from college, killed in a hit-and-run while down in Charlotte, picking up supplies for the store. Their murderer was never discovered. All he left behind were streaks of bright yellow paint on their old brown Chevy.

Would they be proud of me, fighting fires? Would I be working a dangerous job if they were still alive?

Questions. I’m made of questions.

Relentlessly, I shove them down so I can better respond to the nurse, who stares at me with great expectation. “My parents were great people. I got lucky.”

Nurse Clemmons gives me a kind smile before waving goodbye. That’s okay. I don’t mind being alone.

Who am I kidding? I hate being alone.

Still, I guess I must drift off into sleep, because when I wake, I find a man sitting in a chair near the end of my second bed. The whole hospital is darker than usual: the hallway lights are dimmed to nothing but a faint glow, and the room lights are off entirely except for a creep of illumination that strays from under the closed bathroom door.

Yet, I see him. Not clearly, but better than the average person might. I’ve always had excellent night vision.

Somehow, I know this is the man Nurse Clemmons mentioned earlier. I feel it in my bones, in my extra set of teeth, in my phantom extra toes and fingers. He’s just a swathe of darker shadow against the black, but I can sense him breathing and watching me.

Tall and broad, like me. He fills space like the emptiness of a black hole.

“Who are you?” I ask softly, searching with my hand on top of the covers for the nurse’s call button, just in case.

“The question is, who the hell are you?” he asks, his voice a deep rumble. “And what the hell are you doing, trying to blend into this town? This isn’t Harleysville, boy. People are bound to notice.” He leans towards me. I can feel the intention of his gaze washing over me in waves. “Did The Council send you undercover? They’re slipping, if so, because you stand out like a sore thumb, especially since you’re one of The Tallers.” He pauses. “Saints. Be. Damned.”

He says the last three words slowly, emphasizing them like they’re supposed to mean something.

He waits. I wait, though I’m not sure for what. Clarification, I guess.

“No response, boy?”

“To what? I have no idea what you’re talking about. What council? And I don’t care for swearing.” I don’t bother to ask about The Tallers. I’m guessing it’s a crack about my height, though he must be nearly the same size, judging by his shadow.

“The Council. Don’t play dumb with me. Just give me your authorization code, and I’ll be on my way.”

There’s something so irritating in the way he makes demands of me, as if I’m not laid up in a hospital bed, suffering burns and brokenness, that I suddenly care less about finding out who he is than seeing the back of him. “Look, I just had a pretty serious fall into a blanket of fire. My head is pounding like someone’s playing drums inside my skull, my skin is burning, and I’m tired, so if you don’t mind, let’s put this conversation on hold, Mister…?”

He leans back again. “Xyonis Tull. Xy for short. Your turn.”

“You must already know my name, Xy. You’re in my room.” I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice. It slips in anyway. The truth is, I am tired and sore. And cranky. I feel a heck of a lot better than I did earlier, but I’m still on edge.

“That’s true, Sampson Dean.” He sneers out my very normal name like it’s something absurd. “But I want your real name.”

“That is my real name.”

“Like Hell it is. No Neph is going to be given that fucker’s name. Might as well name you David.” For a moment, he falls silent. The air feels watchful as he studies me. Finally, he clicks his tongue. “No, it’s impossible that you don’t know the story of your namesake.”

“What namesake?” My uncle, Sam, does he mean? My father’s brother from Austin?

“Your namesake. From ancient times.”

“What?”

He just continues to stare daggers into me. I think. I can’t see him staring, since he’s mostly darker shadow, but I can feel his intensity.

Whatever medication the doctor gave me must be wearing off, because the burning on the back of my neck feels like fire ants marching to war, and while they’re charging the front line, flames are licking down my veins. And my skull… the dance party is just getting started.

“Right. Look, Xy…”