The water came first—an icy torrent gushing from the kitchen ceiling, soaking the hardwood James had insisted on “because they’ll last longer than we do.” I sloshed through ankle-deep pools, phone pressed to my ear, dialing the people who shared my last name. My brother’s voice was clipped: “I’m with clients. Call a plumber.” My mother whispered about seating charts and salmon, promising to “check in tomorrow.” My father recited the forecast like a eulogy for my expectations. No spare bed. No couch. No “come here.” Just logistics and weather. By the time I found the breaker box in the basement, the house smelled like wet drywall and abandonment. My foot slipped. My palm slammed metal. Electricity detonated through me, a white-hot verdict. Consciousness shattered—stairs, couch, darkness—until the furnace kicked on, turning the flooded, sealed house into a gas chamber. The carbon monoxide alarm shrieked; I couldn’t move. As the edges of the world folded in, I thought, It’s okay, James, I’m com— Then the front door exploded inward, boots hammering, strangers roaring my nam… Continues…