I want to be like fire because fire is the only true thing. Or I want to be like one of them cast-iron spider pots you throw into the fire pit—in the morning, the iron remains, shiny like silver serving ware, and all the crust and bad parts is burned out of existence.” Giselle scratched an exposed knobby wrist, picking at an invisible scab. She’d withered to skin and bones this past year. “I want to burn up and be burned and explode.”
