I had my first snowball fight at nearly 21

I was born into a house on fire. The house does not burn, of course, but my hands have been blistered and raw since 2006.

I do not let anyone I love into my house, for fear that their feet will char. The hardwood floors I nailed in place myself hold heat remarkably well.

My room is a walk-in freezer, somehow. Gaps in the linoleum hold traces of ash but remain cool. The wood stove sits in the next room but a firefighter told me once that I should sleep with my door shut in case of a fire - even my flimsy wooden door blocks the flames. The air there is cold, a blessed relief from the smoke in my lungs.

The smoke tastes like mana from heaven, like pages of my sister's fourth grade Bible, the pages crumpled up so I can't make sense of the words and shoved down my esophagus until I choke on it. I keep my mouth shut so I don't breathe in as much smoke. No amount of coughing can dislodge the communal wafers from my lungs - forgiveness went down wrong, you see.