Smoke rises from the fields in the early morning, the red sky suddenly filing with desperately fleeing birds. I can see the deep red and orange glow as I rush past rows of crops, can smell them burning.

My lungs burn, too. My bare feet ache. My clothes are too thin for the weather, but at the same time I'm sweating and overheating. I can taste the ash, and the shining bitter magic in the air.

"Fire! Fire!" the cry comes, followed by bellowing and shouting and screams.

I can hear the crackling fire behind me, eating away at a house. Not my house, that's already gone. My neighbor's house. She just had a baby. I half hope the wailing is the baby. Better if the baby was at least still alive.

The fire shouldn't make it to the crops.

It's so hot. It's too hot.

If only it could burn more.

I hope the grass will be healthy where the ashes lay. I hope something there will grow back stronger. I hope the fire might be a blessing.

I finally emerge from the wheat and into a field of grass. I stop running, taking heaving breaths. I stand there shaking, then keel over and start gagging. Vomiting. I've scraped my knees. It stings.