“Sign the papers, you old hag!” Travis screamed. His voice was a jagged tear in the air, high-pitched and vibrating with the manic energy of a three-day methamphetamine bender. Spittle flew from his mouth, landing on my cheek. “Do you want to die here? Do you want to burn? Because I don’t care! I swear to God, Martha, I will light this whole place up!”

His eyes were terrifying. The pupils were blown out, swallowing the iris, leaving two black holes that looked into a void where a human soul used to be. His skin was pasty, covered in a sheen of cold, chemical sweat. He was trembling—not with fear, but with the electric, uncontrollable jitters of withdrawal and psychosis.

In his right hand, he held a cheap, translucent plastic lighter. He flicked the wheel. Click-hiss. A small, yellow flame danced into existence, terrifyingly cheerful against the gloom of the room. He lowered it inches from the gasoline-soaked rug.

“Travis, please,” I rasped, my voice barely a whisper. The fumes were making me dizzy. “You don’t have to do this. We can talk.”