I don’t remember much from that night. Running from the house I realized that something didn’t feel right. I was only six, but I knew that something was wrong. My mother shook me from my comfortable sleep.

“Leave! Run, and don’t stop until you get to the woods,” she screamed. My brother and I ran as fast as we could. I had no shoes on and pebbles pierced the rough skin on my feet. I wanted nothing more than to stop in my tracks and massage my aching heels, but I wouldn’t dare to disobey my mother. Before I knew it we were at the edge of the forest. I turned to see my house, my home engulfed in flames. My leg hurt and the pain wouldn’t cease. It was such a horrible pain. There was a bright flashing light and then everything went black.

Days later I awoke. The pain in my leg still hadn’t disappeared.

“Where am I? Where am I?” I called frantically. There was no one around to answer my question, but I knew where I was. The air was stagnant and smelled sterile. My sheets were stiff and I could hear a familiar beeping sound. I was in the hospital. Almost as if on cue a doctor and a nurse walked in.

“Why am I here?” The question was asked in a calm and mature tone.

“You were burned quite badly in the fire,” the doctor replied.

“Where is my mother?” I asked. These adults who seemed so strong and confident wouldn’t look at me. The doctor shifted uncomfortably and looked at the floor. I knew.