Fever Pitch: Confessions in the Firelight

The fire's warmth had been comforting at first, but now my skin felt like it was crawling. Every breath seemed harder than the last, my throat parched and scratchy. Something was wrong with me, terribly wrong.

"I need water," I whispered to no one in particular, pushing myself up from the couch where we'd been gathered.

My legs wobbled beneath me as I made my way toward the kitchen, the others engrossed in conversation behind me. The cool tile against my bare feet provided momentary relief, but it wasn't enough. I fumbled for a glass, filled it from the tap, and gulped down the water so quickly some spilled down my chin.

It didn't help. If anything, I felt worse.

I needed air. Fresh air might clear my head. I stumbled through the unfamiliar layout of Mr. Vance's home, following the faint breeze until I reached a set of glass doors leading outside.