SAMIRA
The fever eats me from the inside out, teeth made of ice gnawing through marrow while my skin burns like I've been dipped in boiling water. Every heartbeat sends fresh waves of hot-cold-hot through my veins, and I can't stop shaking, can't make my body understand which temperature it's supposed to be.
Our storage closet sits beneath the kitchen, a forgotten space that used to hold root vegetables before the dampness rotted through the shelves. Six pallets pressed tight against sweating stone walls, thin mattresses stuffed with straw that never quite dries out. The ceiling drips constant—a broken pipe somewhere above that nobody'll ever fix—creating puddles we navigate by memory in the dark. Mold creeps black across the corners, and the air tastes of decay no matter how many times
