Tuesday, March 24th.
The house on Maple Drive felt smaller in daylight.
No school bells. No hallways echoing with footsteps. No eyes tracking Troy's every move. Just the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of settling wood, and the distant bark of the neighbor's dog that never quite stopped.
Elena had called in sick to work—first time in three years. She'd told the charge nurse it was a family emergency. Technically true. She sat at the kitchen table in sweatpants and an old college hoodie (Kayla's, actually), nursing black coffee that had gone cold. Her phone lay face-down beside her mug. Dr. Patel's office had confirmed the emergency session for 2:00 p.m. today. She'd already printed the intake forms, signed where it said "parent/guardian."
Troy hadn't come downstairs yet.
She'd heard him moving around at 7:15—same time the school bus would have passed the house if he were going. Footsteps. Toilet flush. Door closing. Then silence.
She waited another twenty minutes before climbing the stairs.
His bedroom door was open a crack. She knocked once, pushed it wider.
Troy sat on the floor against the bed, knees drawn up, staring at the empty sock drawer like it owed him money. The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling had faded to pale green ghosts in the morning light. His hoodie was the same one from yesterday—singed cuff still faintly blackened, the smell of chemical foam and charred rubber clinging stubbornly despite last night's wash.
"Morning," Elena said softly.
He didn't look up. "Hi."
She stepped inside, sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped. "You hungry? I can make pancakes. Or eggs. Whatever."
He shrugged one shoulder. "Not really."
She nodded. Didn't push. Instead she looked around the room—really looked. The drawings on the desk: flames now dominated every margin, some realistic with curling smoke tendrils, others abstract explosions of orange and black crayon. A half-finished model rocket lay in pieces on the floor—probably meant for a science fair that never happened. Kayla's old lava lamp sat dark and dusty on the dresser.
"I called Kayla last night," Elena said.
Troy's head lifted slightly.
"She's coming home this weekend. Friday night through Sunday. Said she's got midterms but she's skipping study group to be here."
Something flickered in his eyes—hope, maybe, or fear that it wouldn't be enough.
"She asked about you," Elena continued. "I told her… everything. The incidents. The suspension. She didn't sound surprised. Just… worried. Said she's bringing your birthday present early. The one she promised in that letter."
Troy swallowed. "The one from two years ago?"
"Yeah."
He stared at the floor again.
Elena reached over, brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. "We're going to see Dr. Patel this afternoon. Just to talk. No pressure. You don't have to say anything you don't want to."
He nodded once.
She stood. "I'll make breakfast anyway. Come down when you're ready."
She left the door open.
Downstairs, she cracked eggs into a bowl, whisked them harder than necessary. The kitchen smelled of coffee and dish soap. She kept glancing at the back door—half expecting to see smoke curling from the yard. But the shed stood silent, its blackened siding a permanent scar.
Troy appeared twenty minutes later.
He sat at the table without a word. She slid a plate in front of him: scrambled eggs, toast, a glass of orange juice. He poked at the eggs but didn't eat.
They ate in near-silence.
Afterward, Elena cleared the plates. "Want to help me in the yard? The flower beds need weeding. Fresh air might be good."
He hesitated, then nodded.
Outside, the March air was crisp, carrying the smell of wet earth and distant woodsmoke from someone's chimney. Elena handed him a small trowel. They knelt side by side in the dirt, pulling dandelions and dead leaves. The work was mindless, rhythmic. For the first time in days, the silence between them felt less like a wall.
Half an hour in, Troy spoke.
"Why does it feel quiet after?"
Elena paused, trowel hovering over a root.
"After the fire," he clarified. "Everything gets… still. Inside my head."
She sat back on her heels. Wiped dirt from her hands. "I don't know, baby. Maybe because for those few seconds, the only thing that matters is the flame. No other thoughts can get in."
He nodded slowly.
"But it doesn't stay quiet," he said. "It comes back louder."
Elena looked at him—really looked. His face was smudged with dirt, eyes shadowed. Ten years old and already carrying something heavier than most adults.
"I know," she whispered. "That's why we're going to talk to someone who might help make the quiet last longer. Without the fire."
He didn't answer.
They worked another half hour, then went inside to wash up.
At 1:30 p.m., Elena drove them to Dr. Patel's office—a small suite in a medical plaza ten minutes away. The waiting room smelled of lavender diffuser and old magazines. Soft music played. Troy sat rigid, hands clasped between his knees.
Dr. Patel was a woman in her fifties—short silver hair, warm brown eyes, cardigan over a blouse. She greeted them at the door with a calm smile.
"Hi, Troy. Hi, Elena. Come on in."
The office was cozy: two armchairs, a small couch, a low table with a box of tissues and a bowl of fidget toys. No desk between them. No clipboard in sight.
Elena sat on one armchair. Troy took the couch. Dr. Patel sat across from him in the other chair.
"We're just going to talk today," she said. "No right or wrong answers. You can tell me as much or as little as you want. Or nothing at all. That's okay too."
Troy stared at his sneakers.
Elena started—explained the incidents, the suspension, the searches. Dr. Patel listened without interrupting, nodding occasionally.
When Elena finished, Dr. Patel turned to Troy.
"Sounds like a lot has been happening," she said gently. "Can you tell me what it feels like when you want to light something?"
Troy was quiet a long time.
Then: "Like there's a storm inside. And the fire makes it stop raining for a minute."
Dr. Patel leaned forward slightly. "What does the storm feel like before the fire?"
"Big. Empty. Loud. Like… nobody sees me."
"And after?"
"Quiet. Warm. Like someone's holding me."
Elena's throat tightened.
Dr. Patel nodded. "That makes sense. The fire is doing something important for you right now—it's helping you feel seen and calm. We're going to figure out other ways to get that feeling. Safer ways."
Troy looked at her for the first time. "Like what?"
"Like talking. Drawing. Moving your body. Breathing in certain ways. We'll try them together. Little by little."
He shrugged, but it wasn't dismissive. It was… considering.
They talked for another thirty minutes—mostly Elena answering questions about family history, Kayla's departure, Dad's absences. Troy spoke in short sentences when asked directly. Dr. Patel never pushed.
At the end, she gave Troy a small notebook. "This is yours. You can draw in it, write whatever you want. Bring it next time. No one looks unless you say it's okay."
Troy took it. Flipped through the blank pages.
Back in the car, Elena asked, "How was that?"
"Okay," he said.
She waited.
"Better than I thought," he added quietly.
They drove home in companionable silence.
That evening, Kayla called on video.
Her face filled the screen—older, tired from midterms, but still smiling the same way.
"Hey, Little Pyro."
Troy's eyes lit up despite himself.
"Hey."
They talked for forty minutes. Kayla asked about school (he mumbled "suspended"), about the fires (he said "yeah"), about Mom (he said "she's tired"). Kayla listened. Didn't lecture. Just listened.
Before hanging up: "I'm coming Friday. We're gonna hang out. Just you and me. Like old times. No fires unless they're metaphorical. Deal?"
Troy almost smiled. "Deal."
After the call, he went to his room.
Elena gave him space.
At 9:00 p.m., she knocked.
He was on the bed, the new notebook open. A single flame drawn in the center—careful lines, shaded smoke.
She sat beside him.
"You okay?"
He nodded.
She hesitated. "If you ever feel the storm coming… come find me. Even if it's 3 a.m. Okay?"
He looked at her—really looked.
"Okay."
She kissed his forehead. Left the door cracked.
Troy lay back.
Stared at the ceiling stars.
The storm was still there—smaller tonight, but waiting.
He opened the notebook again.
Drew another flame beside the first.
Smaller.
Quieter.
He didn't light anything.
But the itch in his palms didn't leave.
Three days of suspension left.
Kayla coming Friday.
Therapy just started.
The house was quiet.
For now.