You sit with her in your lap, your entire body wrapped around hers in a futile gesture, as if you could somehow protect her from the encroaching flames. You clutch her to you with all the life you have left, squeezing her in your arms, running your hands over her mane and feathers and coat. Try to get all that closeness, that contact, that you would never have again, and you cry. Your life together ends as soon as it had begun. Out cold, you can’t even tell her you love her. Seriously this time, with feeling.