The radio says mountains are on fire. I wake beside Ruth, kicking off sweat-damp sheets, careful not to jostle her. She's still passed out, thank God. It's ten a.m. The heat is homicidal.

I fumble for the radio and turn it off.

Mountains—the green, densely forested mountains behind my old neighborhood—are burning. The Appalachians. No rain all spring. Dry lightning storms have whispered across Maryland and Virginia, igniting undergrowth, birthing infant forest fires that have become monstrous in adulthood. Fires like these are unheard-of on the East Coast; they've been headlines for days.

The development where I grew up has been evacuated. My parents are waiting it out in Atlantic City.

But I don't want to think about my parents. Or the fire.

I sit up carefully beside Ruth.

Dorm beds are designed for a single person, so if you're sharing one with a girl you're in love, or lust, with, the bed is perfect, because you have to be practically on top of her. But if you're not supposed to be there at all—if the other person doesn't know you're there—things aren't as simple.