I wake up to the tap-tap-tapping of keys--quick, relentless typing that drills straight through the hazy cloud of sleep I'm barely clawing my way out of. I open one eye, and there's Jordan, hunched over their laptop with the world's worst posture, surrounded by a graveyard of empty energy drink cans and one very suspiciously orange bag of "high-caffeine snack wafers."

I don't even have to ask. The tabs open on their screen pretty much tell the whole story: "Pyrophobia and Trauma," "PTSD Symptom Checklist," "How to Identify a Trigger," and--most concerning--"How to Cure Fire Phobia (Guaranteed)." I sit up, rubbing the spot on my temple that's throbbing the hardest. "Uh, good morning, WebDoc. How's the diagnostic practice?"

Jordan looks up, blinking at me with caffeine-glazed eyes. "Good, you're up. So I've been researching--and it turns out that the whole 'fire-panic-attack' thing is an actual Thing. And there's this whole debate around PTSD and specific phobias. Apparently, some people get super freaked out by anything vaguely resembling their trauma, even if it's not literally the same thing, you know?"

"Oh, fantastic," I mumble, pushing myself off the couch. My right hand throbs at the memory of last night's trash fire, my fingers curling involuntarily. "This feels a lot like the preamble to a really questionable experiment."

"Correction," Jordan says, raising a finger. "This is the preamble to some controlled and very responsible science. Speaking of which..." They reach into their bag, and I see the telltale glint of a metal lighter.

I narrow my eyes. "Are you seriously about to light something in here? This place is a fire hazard waiting to happen. One spark, and the whole Music Hall goes up faster than a bag of popcorn on high."

"Relax, Sam." Jordan clicks the lighter open, but they don't light it yet. "It's just a test. And anyway, we'll take it slow. This is all about helping you face your fears. Baby steps, see?"

"Baby steps," I echo, not even slightly convinced. But they hold the lighter at arm's length, eyebrows raised in a silent question, and I brace myself, gripping the armrest of the couch so hard my knuckles turn white. The lighter clicks again, sparking a tiny blue flame.

And immediately, my chest tightens, my pulse spiking as I stare at the flame. My right hand starts to ache, that sharp pain under the fingernails flaring up again, like something's pushing up from under them. My mouth goes dry, and I feel like I'm drowning on dry land, like my whole body is screaming at me to get out, to run, because there's a fire inside this place.

I swallow hard, gripping the couch tighter and hearing the fabric strain. "You--uh, Jordan, you're not gonna... I mean, this place is old," I mumble, stumbling over my words, my eyes glued to the flickering light. "And, um, all this wood--it's pretty much asking for trouble. You know, the whole thing could just... go up."

Jordan watches me with this intense, bug-eyed stare, like I'm about to go feral at any second, which isn't that far off. "So?"

"So... yeah, I'm fine," I lie, heart still hammering, my gaze flicking back and forth from the flame to the walls. "Just... a little paranoid about, you know, all the dry, flammable wood around us and... stuff." My fingers are throbbing now, and I fight the urge to pull my hand back, forcing myself to look away from the lighter, my breathing shallow.

Jordan's still watching me, not entirely convinced, but I nod and force a thin smile, willing my heart rate to slow down. "I'm fine. Totally fine," I say, not even fooling myself.

Just then, we hear a soft knock at the door, followed by Tasha's voice drifting in. "Hey, is it safe for me to come in, or are we playing with fireworks in here?"

Jordan smirks and flicks the lighter shut. "For now, you're good. But you might want to grab some goggles or something because we're conducting some groundbreaking research." They turn to me, wagging their eyebrows like they're about to say something absolutely brilliant. "Experimental stuff. For science."

I sigh. "Please. No more experiments until I've had, like, a full gallon of water and a breakfast sandwich."

Tasha steps in, lugging a bag with a big red cross on it, plus an actual stack of borrowed nursing books. "Research, huh? I bet this is totally medically approved. But, hey, that's what I'm here for." She holds up the books like she's presenting me with the secrets of the universe. "Field medicine, patch-up techniques, trauma responses... and, y'know, some random stuff I thought might help."

We settle in, with Tasha flipping through pages and taking over "Research Lead" duties because, as she puts it, "Jordan's a computer person, not a trauma nurse." They roll their eyes but don't argue, just snickering while Tasha explains the concept of isolation of variables to them. She pulls out a notebook and starts jotting down details, like which settings might impact my reactions. There's a solid twenty minutes where they're both going back and forth about "trigger nuances" and "environmental variables," using words I'm pretty sure they learned yesterday.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

----------------------------------------

They start with the lighter again. It's small, controlled, and Jordan holds it low enough that it's more of a suggestion of fire than anything serious. I watch the flickering light and feel my shoulders tense, but it's manageable. I'm fine, and I'm not about to piss myself on the couch. Jordan tilts their head and raises the lighter a bit higher, eyeing me.

"How about here? Same thing?"

"Jordan, stop holding it like you're about to audition for the world's worst horror movie," Tasha sighs, taking the lighter from them. She clicks it off and pulls out a sparkler from her bag. "Okay, we're gonna try something small first. But, Sam, the idea is to let us know exactly what feels wrong about it, okay?"

They light the sparkler. I brace, half-expecting to feel that intense dread again, but there's nothing interesting. Just a little fizz and crackle of light as the sparks spray out in harmless little trails. I flinch whenever they make contact with the coffee table, but that's about it. It's almost... underwhelming. I'm so focused on how not-panic-inducing it is that I almost forget to respond until Tasha nudges me.

"No reaction?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

"Just... looks like the Fourth of July, honestly," I shrug, trying to play it cool. But I can feel the difference. It's not triggering anything at all. "Guess it's not just any fire that gets me."

Jordan gives me a half-grin, like they've cracked some cosmic secret. "Okay, but what if we add a little something? Hold on."

They dash off to the supply closet, coming back with a flashlight wrapped in some cheap red cellophane, looking very pleased with themselves. They flick it on, pointing the red light toward the sparkler. "How about now? Anything?"

I stare at the absurd setup and can't help but laugh. "That's... that's not even remotely the same thing, Jordan. It's literally just a flashlight with plastic on it."

"Oh, come on," they say, sounding a little disappointed. "It was worth a shot. You said the color was part of it, so--"

"Not like that!" I protest. "I meant... well, I don't even know what I meant. Just that yesterday's fire was weirdly red and... bright. Different. I don't know, the traffic light just made me jump last night because it startled me. The fire isn't startling, it's upsetting."

Tasha cuts in, frowning. "We need to keep it basic, Jordan. Let's stick to real flames, and only in spots Sam's comfortable with. If it was about specific locations, maybe it's tied to places she feels safe. Like here, or anywhere familiar."

They both look at me, waiting for confirmation, and I nod slowly, not entirely sure myself. "What, you think I know any better? I didn't even know I had, what's it called, pyrophobia until like an hour ago."

"Noted." Tasha jots that down, looking thoughtful. She pulls out another sparkler, this time without the theatrics, and lights it in a corner of the room. I watch carefully, noticing that while I'm still a little tense, there's none of that gut-wrenching panic from before.

"Let's take it outside," Jordan suggests, waving me toward the back door. "Maybe it's the enclosed space."

----------------------------------------

Out in the parking lot next to the Music Hall, Tasha sets up another sparkler, while Jordan watches me closely, waiting for the slightest sign of discomfort. The sparkler flares to life, red and yellow sparks dancing in the winter air, and while I'm still tense, it's nothing like last night. No nail pain, no adrenaline rush--just the normal wariness anyone would feel standing near open flames in a semi-abandoned parking lot.

"Still nothing?" Jordan sounds almost disappointed, like they were hoping for some breakthrough reaction.

I shake my head. "Nope. Just... kinda pretty, actually."

Tasha taps her pen against her notebook, her brow furrowing. "So, it's not about the color or the setting. Maybe it's... the size? Like, actual big fires versus little ones?"

Jordan clicks the lighter again, holding it up for another test. This time, they add a bit of red paper they had leftover from something (no one asks what), holding it up like they're performing some kind of weird science experiment with medieval alchemy. I roll my eyes, but Tasha just takes notes, muttering under her breath about control groups and variable isolation.

It makes me flinch. I don't like looking at it! It makes me uncomfortable and it makes my hand hurt.

At one point, Jordan suggests testing out different flammable materials to see if the smoke or smell might have triggered something. Tasha shoots them down immediately, reminding them that "controlled" doesn't mean "absolutely insane."

They argue over "variable integrity" for a good five minutes, while I stand there shivering, the red sparkler still fizzing harmlessly on the floor. This whole thing feels surreal, like we're all just pretending we know what we're doing, grasping at straws because none of us have the slightest clue what's actually going on in my head. And maybe that's what's bugging me the most--that I don't know either.

----------------------------------------

Eventually, they run out of creative ideas, and Tasha puts away the last sparkler with a sigh. "Okay, I think we've officially exhausted our supply of home remedies. Maybe it's just... whatever happened yesterday was an isolated thing. Could've just been a fluke."

I nod slowly, though something inside me still doesn't feel right. There's this lingering itch of unease, this sense that whatever triggered me yesterday isn't something I can just brush off. But for now, I keep that to myself, glancing between my friends, who both look ready to drop from exhaustion.

"Fine, let's call it," I say, forcing a grin. "But Jordan, if you even think about lighting another sparkler indoors, I'm reporting you to the fire marshal."

Jordan grins back, flashing me a peace sign as they snatch the last empty energy drink can. "Noted. Although, technically, I think the fire marshal would just be impressed with our rigorous experimentation."

Tasha sighs, rolling her eyes. "Please don't let the fire marshal hear about any of this."

I stop. "Hold on. Jordan, use your lighter again."

Jordan stops mid-stride to do just that, turning around on their heels to present their blue-yellow flame to me. I can feel my skin crawl and my hand ache, and the closer they wave it to the brick facade of the Music Hall, the more I can feel myself start to sweat.

Tasha looks at me, and then back at Jordan. Then, she steals the thoughts from my brain. "What if it's the place?"