1: Dasha.

A week goes by in a blur. For the first two days, I’m in the hospital, recovering from smoke inhalation. My aunt and cousins arrive to take care of the funeral arrangements, dropping flowers off in my hospital room, crying into tissues. People visit. Voices, facial features, comforting touches all feel the same.

I don’t know how to feel. Sad, yes. Lonely? That’s really nothing new. My father was increasingly absent leading up to the fire, coming home late at night, leaving before I woke. The meager time we spent together, he seemed nervous, chain smoking in our backyard while I watched television or did housework. We weren’t close even before my mother left, but we respected each other. He cared about me in his own way and made an effort on my birthday and Christmas. My father wasn’t a bad man, he just didn’t know how to be a dad.

Laughter echoes in my head every time I close my eyes now. Did someone want to hurt my father? Was there something he didn’t tell me?

In the hospital, every