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said.
    Dave pulled out a camera. “OK?” Gayle agreed.
    â€œSo what’s her prognosis?” I asked.
    Gayle explained how the woman had burns of different severity over parts of her body. A few areas remained untouched, or the burns were first degree—“Her feet, oddly enough”—but most of her body had second-degree burns, where the top layer of skin burned away.
    â€œGasoline burns fast,” she said. “Her clothes, slower, which is where we see the third-degree burns.”
    I tried to figure out where the woman was severely burned. “How much of this is third degree?”
    â€œTwenty percent. Around her shoulders, and across her lower torso. Thank God for natural fibers, which burn faster than synthetic or, God forbid, plastic.” A grim look passed over her face. “Plastic can be a mess.”
    â€œSo twenty percent,” Dave said, putting his camera away. “That’s not too bad, right?”
    â€œOh, it’s bad. Especially for a person her age.”
    â€œHer age?” I asked. “Do you know how old she is?”
    â€œWell, based on the osteoporosis we detected when we did X-rays, I’d put her in her mid-fifties, possibly her mid-sixties. While it’s not hard and fast, a rule of thumb is that if you add a person’s age to the amount of their body burned to the third degree, you get the percent chance someone might die: If she’s in her fifties, it might be a seventy-five percent chance of death, and if she’s in her sixties, closer to eight-five.” Dave’s face fell. Gayle plowed on. “And any comorbidities—diabetes, heart disease, asthma—might mean worse odds.”
    The woman’s breathing got heavy. I didn’t see any blips on the monitors, but Gayle picked up her catheter bag and examined the urine critically.
    â€œWe’re over-hydrating her,” she said. “We might be drowning her right now. You need to go. I’ll be sure to call you if she wakes up, even for a second, I promise I’ll get a name.” Gayle adjusted the woman’s IV, lowering her fluid. “We want to find out who our friend is as much as you do.”

CHAPTER 3
    I WORKED THREE DAYS OF DOUBLES AT THE SITE OF THE FIRE , coming home to sleep and be told by my seven-year-old daughter that I smelled funny. The ash from the fire soaked into my clothes and my hair, which I was convinced was turning from blond to gray. Despite taking long showers, scraping the black out from under my nails, and washing my clothes twice, the scent clung to me, ground in. I figured I had another week of this before life reverted to normal, but on day four I arrived at the building site to find work stopped.
    â€œChemicals,” Dave said. “Vats and vats of chemicals tucked behind an illegal wall in the basement.”
    My skin began to burn as I imagined all the toxins in the air. “Illegal?”
    â€œThe fire marshal said it doesn’t show up in any of the plans filed at city hall.” I watched as the fire department’s hazardous materials response team carried tenting through the piles of bricks surrounding the building.
    â€œFire department says it’s Tris—”
    â€œTris?”
    â€œYeah, some chemical they used to treat pajamas with until they figured out it caused kids to get liver cancer. Banned in the late seventies. Instead of spending money to dispose of it properly, goddamned Bernie Lawler stacked vats of this stuff behind a flimsy wall in the basement.”
    â€œIn case his killing his wife left you with any doubt that he was a complete and total scumbag,” I said. Bernie Lawler was another in a long line of owners who dumped chemicals into our land and water before decamping. Usually the companies moved to the South or overseas, not prison, although plenty deserved it.
    â€œTo be fair,” Dave said, “it would’ve been there until the roaches ruled the