There was a cloud of gloom hanging over my head for the rest of the day. I’d showered away all traces of Blaise once I got home, but I still felt him with me. I could almost feel his annoyance with me, too, dark and angry, hovering over me like a disapproving authority figure. Right over the spot he’d left his mark on me. The mark that I couldn’t wash off.

Working had been a pipedream, but I’d still gone out into the bayou to try. I had a few posts set up in different parts of the swamp near my home that I needed to check regularly.

I’d traveled the world, but the bayous of Louisiana were where my heart lived, and not just because I was born and raised in the state. In my opinion, the wetlands of the deep south were one of the most incredible places on Earth. I was more comfortable in the bayou than most people were in their own living rooms.

I was currently in the process of experimentation, trying to develop a few different strands of produce that would thrive in the wetlands of our part of the country. My long-term goal was to eventually provide a new industry for the bayou folk I’d grown up around. It was my side project. Usually, I traveled to different places in the country—the world, even—to work on growing various crops or to study the flora of different locals and climates. I held a degree in horticulture, and I frequently worked with other horticulturists, botanists, and plant genome engineers whose names were decorated with more diplomas and were followed by more initials than mine, but who didn’t possess my green thumb. In fact, I was frequently praised by colleagues who claimed that I could make a lilypad grow in the desert.

What I couldn’t do was figure out what kind of animal kept messing with the post farthest from my house. Every time I made it back to the little hut, something had scratched at the door until the lock gave. It’d been getting inside and rooting around, killing any chances I had at getting the seeds to germinate and grow.

Annoyed and ready to call it a day, I figured I’d give it one more look-see before going home and crawling into bed. I made my way to the back of the hut to pick up the lantern I kept there for the occasions when I lost track of time, worked too late, and got caught out in the swamps and marshes after sundown. It was already getting dark outside, and I knew that by the time I got halfway back home, it would be pitch black and I was more likely to stick my foot in the mouth of a gator than to land it safely on my back porch.

I fumbled around and retrieved the pack of matches from a supply box under the lantern, removed a single match, and struck it. As soon as I did, I realized my mistake. The lantern was holding liquid in its grooves, a place that should have been dry. Had the lamp oil leaked out somehow? As the realization crossed my mind, it was followed quickly by a second realization—the liquid wasn’t kerosene. It was gasoline. How had I not noticed the smell? I’d been too distracted by trying not to think about Blaise.

What happened next was like a scene from Final Destination. I felt like death itself had suddenly arrived to play a starring role in my life. I dropped the lantern onto its shelf, too fast. It wobbled, and just when I thought it would stay upright, it tipped forward and crashed to the stony ground. The match in my other hand continued to burn while I watched in horror as the lantern shattered. When the flame licked at my fingers, I startled, dropping the match.

The burst of fire that shot up shocked me enough that it sent me reeling backward. I stepped on the shattered lantern and screamed when a huge shard of glass pierced my boot and found its way into the arch of my foot. It was deep and painful, but my immediate concern was the fire continuing to spread around me. The flames grew too big too fast. Even in my panicked state, I was aware that the fire pattern wasn’t a natural progression. All that gasoline, how had I not smelled it?

My hut was small and made of old wood that seemed excited to burn. Before I could hobble across the space, the whole place seemed to be up in flames.

My heart raced, and I sucked in lungsful of thick smoke that reeked of burning gasoline and lighter fluid. I sank to the damp earth and crawled toward the door. It wasn’t far—a few feet. Even with the pain shooting up my leg, I could make it. As long as I could breathe and get out, I’d be fine. But a split second before I reached it, the door became consumed in flames.

My brain raced through exit strategies. I’d been in a few dangerous situations before, and I wasn’t one to allow panic to overtake and immobilize me. The little room burned hotter, though. I was trapped inside a furnace. My face felt like it was roasting, and the air was so thick with smoke it caused tears to stream down my face.

I gasped in smoke-filled air and screamed as loud as I could, hoping someone would hear me. How had it escalated so fast? Mere seconds had passed, but everything around me was burning.

My seeds were at the edge of the hut, planted directly in the damp soil. I moved toward them and dug my hands in the mud, relieved to find a respite from the heat for a second. Desperate and fighting for my life, I grabbed handfuls of mud and rubbed it over my burning face and hair. I tried to bury myself in it, accepting that I wasn’t getting through the burning door. I burrowed deeper and sobbed as fire licked at my skin.

Even with the dire set of circumstances I was in, I knew I wasn’t going to die. Later, I would realize how crazy that was, but in my head at the time, surrounded by fire, I thought I could just bury myself in the cool mud and wait for the fire to burn itself out. I never considered how close I was to death, or just how much pain I was in. I cried as I dug my feet into the mud, and the glass seemed to wedge deeper into my foot. Yet, I knew it would all be okay.

And it was. The mark on my neck started to burn hotter than the fire around me. Blaise. I gasped and choked on mud and black smoke, but it was quickly replaced with fresh, well fresher, air as the entire burning hut was raised skyward, vanishing from around me. It landed fifty yards away, where it sank halfway into the water.

Blaise, the giant red dragon that he was, hovered over me, a very panicked look on his huge dragon face. He threw back his massive head and let out a roar that shook the ground.

I was so relieved to be able to breathe that I forgot about the pain I was in. I pulled myself from the mud and struggled to my knees. “Y-You saved me.”

Blaise transformed in front of me, the act was dizzying in my current state. “No, no, no, no. Chyna! Oh, Chyna. Stay with me. Stay with me, mate.”

I let him pick me up. The moment I was in his arms, the world seemed to settle back into place. His big body was cool against me, and his touch was so gentle. I knew that he’d take care of me. I knew I could stop worrying now.

“I must take you to a human healer. A doctor. Where does one find a doctor?” He sounded so panicked. Different from anything I’d observed from him before, and I didn’t like it.

“I’m okay, Blaise. I just need a shower and maybe a couple of Band-Aids.”

“Hospital! Why do none of us know where a flaming hospital is?!”

I rested my head on his shoulder and smiled up at him. “Blaise, I’m fine. Just take me home and hose me off.”

It was around then that I realized that I must’ve been in shock or something. Take me home and hose me off? If I was rational, I might have agreed that a hospital seemed like a good idea. Well, maybe. But Blaise’s shoulder felt like the best pillow ever, and I was quickly losing touch with consciousness.

Oh, well.