The quiet Fire in the corduroy Couch

"I was standing on the back lawn of my old middle school, watching a bright orange tear in the side of a brown corduroy couch. There was no big explosion or roaring flames, just a quiet, stubborn ember eating away at the foam inside, breathing out a thin ribbon of sweet, chemical-smelling smoke. I knew I was supposed to be looking for a garden hose or a bucket of water, but I ended up just standing there staring at the way the orange glow slowly crept across the fabric. A teacher I haven't seen in fifteen years walked past carrying a stack of yellow folding chairs and asked if I wanted to help set up for a bake sale, completely ignoring the smoke. I pointed at the couch, but she just kept walking toward the gymnasium doors like it was nothing. Then I was inside the gym sitting on a bleacher, holding a paper plate with a cold grilled cheese sandwich on it. I could still smell that faint, burnt-foam smoke on my shirt, but I didn't care or feel worried about the fire outside anymore. I just sat there picking the crust off the sandwich, watching a group of people in raincoats play bad volleyball in total silence. Woke up with a dry throat, staring at the streetlight shining through my window blinds."