My piano sheet music.

I add it to the mental list of things I lost in the fire. I haven't touched a piano in years; I kept the sheet music out of the fantastical hope that I might someday rekindle a passion for doing anything other than watching Netflix.

It isn't like the moment my life burned down I felt a sudden pain for all the things I was about to lose, as if my possessions are connected to me through some consumerist nerve network. But somehow, the un-having of something brings it to mind more painfully than having it ever could.

Note to self: take up slam poetry.

The greatest agony comes upon remembering the stack of job applications I just finished filling out, reduced to ashes and scattered along 22nd street. I spent days walking around my neighborhood asking every restaurant, coffee shop, and consignment store for an application. I spent my weekend carefully filling each out, writing bomb-ass personalized cover letters, and then being on fire.

So, about your average week.

And now I need a new apartment. Since life hates me this much, I'm surprised it saw fit to send me a lung donor.

My mom would say it's a good sign, but firstly, I don't believe in signs, particularly in good signs. Secondly, requiring a lung transplant doesn't exactly suggest a streak of good luck. And thirdly, I hate thinking about my mom.

I still haven't told her about the fire. I'm anticipating the world's most terrifying phone call when she gets the first bill from her insurance. My stomach twists just thinking about it.

"Are you still there?" My friend Dawn asks through the cell phone on my lap.

I bring my thoughts to heel. Apartment now. Parents later.

"Look at this Craigslist post!" I say into the phone. "The entire listing is in quotation marks. How can something be an 'apartment'? Or for 'rent'? Is this person being sarcastic?"

"Probably not," Dawn says. I can hear her juicing vegetables in the background. Gawd. So trendy. "My place was listed as a two bedroom. Nick can't even lay down in the second 'bedroom.' It's a closet."

"That's obscene."

"That's what you get for living next to a college. Those kids sleep like sardines."

I yawn, feeling fuzzy. I glance at the clock on my phone. It's 4 pm. Another perk of hospital life: if you go to bed at 4 pm, nobody judges you for it. Also, I haven't worn pants in a week.

"What about this one?" Dawn asks.

A text balloons on my screen and I tap the link. A two-bedroom apartment, not far from my old place, looking for a sub-letter.

"Dawn. They breed snakes."

"It says she keeps all the snakes in her bedroom."

"No."

I lay back on my pillow and heave an impressive sigh. Nurse Dan would be proud. My breathing exercises are paying off.

"Can I just live in the hospital forever?"

Dawn laughs. "I don't think you'll be able to keep up with the rent."

"Ugh," I say, wishing I could roll onto my side. I miss sleeping on my side. Nurse Dan, when can I sleep on my side?

"Want to keep looking at apartments?" she asks.

"Later," I mumble. "The drugs are making me sleepy."

"'Mkay, bye. Enjoy your drugs."

"I am," I say, and drift off before I can hang up.

. * . * . * .

Some indefinite amount of time later, I flicker back to consciousness, feeling a small pang in my chest. My drip must be running low.

When I sit up, I notice the woman standing over me. I blink away the sleep and stare at her. She stares back at me, looking disappointed.

"Are you a nurse?"

The woman has her hands pointed at my chest like she's about to go off a diving board.

"You're not a nurse," I accuse.

With a weak voice, as if she's got a cold, she says, "Go back to sleep."

I say, very honestly, "I can't."

The woman lowers her arms and smoothes her floral dress. It looks like she's wearing the couch from my grandmother's basement. A few flakes of snow linger in the loose curls of her hair. She takes a seat in the plastic chair by the window and watches me intently.

"Go back to sleep," she says again.

"I'm not going to sleep while you're here," I say indignantly. "What are you doing in my room?"

"Your room," the woman chortles. "You've grown accustomed to a lot of things that aren't yours."

Something begins to turn in my brain, and I stare at the woman. Her light, thinning hair. The thrift store dress. She's the kind of person I wouldn't notice in passing, whom I might only recognize after hours scouring the Internet for pictures of the poor unwitting samaritan whose lungs I inherited.

"I... you..." I stammer. "The fire. I'm sorry."

I know you're supposed to be respectful while talking about the deceased, so I assume it's the same while talking to them.

Dee waves a hand. "Oh, skip it. I'm not dead. You think a small explosion is enough to do me in? Hell, it couldn't even do you in. Although..." she speaks lightly, as if we're just making conversation, "I did see your reaper come to take you. You're tenacious."

A chill ruffles the hair on my arms. "Maybe the afterlife didn't want me that badly."

She smiles. "They want everyone equally, and expediently."

My heart hammers. The surge of blood flushes my ribcage with dull pain. "Is that why you're here?"

"Oh, no." Dee flashes an easy smile. "I'm not here for you. Not all of you, at least. I'm here to recollect."

And she points at me – through me.

"Thank you for keeping them warm, and oxygenated. They wouldn't have done well sitting in an icebox somewhere." Dee shivers. "Can you imagine? How uncomfortable."

"You can't." I'm suddenly very aware of my confinement to this little bed. As frail as Dee looks, she emanates some inner surety that terrifies me. It says, oh, but I can.

"Honey, there's nothing that can be done for you at this point," Dee says, almost sounding sorry. "Your number is up. You weren't meant to survive the fire, I'm sorry to say. No other set of lungs could've staved off the inevitable. It's that they're mine that's the important part."

"You died! They didn't just rip out your lungs without checking! You... you died!"

"Oh, believe me, it was a setback," Dee agrees.

"It's me who needs them!" I protest. "You look like you're managing fine!"

"I'm not interested in managing. I have plans, sweetie. I'm a patient woman, but I've been waiting a long, long time."

She stands and puts a finger on my chest. I light up with a furious pain that recalls a hundred tiny terrible moments that I've been trying to put behind me, and some that I didn't even remember.

"Last week was a fluke," she says softly. Again, she sounds frail, or ill. "I've rested up. I'm ready for a second try."

I scramble and slap the wall above my head. My hand smashes the button to get my nurse's attention.

"You're going to get out of my room," I heave through the deep ache in my chest. "Now."

To my surprise, Dee gives a light laugh and steps away.

"I relent. I'll see you tomorrow night." She winks at me. "Sleep tight. And keep doing your breathing exercises, won't you?"

"You didn't know me in college," I snap. "I'm a champion insomniac. My veins are 90% Red Bull."

"Look," Dee says, lingering in the doorway. "Like I said, you weren't meant to survive that fire. I'll be surprised if your reaper isn't back to finish the job before the week's over. They're on a very tight schedule. You must have thrown things quite off balance."

My reaper. The word so flowery, so dramatic, so imaginary, yet it settles like a shadow across my mind. My reaper.

Dee is right; I do keep inheriting things that shouldn't be mine.

Dee smoothes out a wrinkle in her Retirement Home Chic dress. "Eager as I am to get on with things, I don't blame you for electing to take a few final days. Though... I must admit, it would save me a world of trouble if you'd give me a call before that happens."

She reaches into a purse at her hip and pulls out a slender card, deposits it at my bedside. "If you should choose to drift off before they come... I can promise you an easy end. And I would be ever grateful."

The snowfall outside has become a tempest. My room, my little speck of light, feels ever smaller. For just a moment, I imagine a flutter of black in the falling snow.

"So. Either I fall asleep and you rip my lungs out—"

"My lungs out," Dee corrects.

"—or I wait for my reaper to finish me off."

Dee smiles her sweet little smile, clicking her nails against the doorframe. "Have you ever heard of a Catch-22?"