The flames began behind her eyes.   Twelve-year-old Lena Whitaker jolted upright in bed, fingers clawing at her pajama top as golden light bled through the cotton. The glow pulsed in time with her panicked breaths—once, twice—before her bedroom mirror shattered from the heat.   Downstairs, her father's whiskey glass hit the floor.   "Lena?" Heavy footsteps on the stairs. The doorknob rattled. "Open this door right n—"   The explosion blew the door off its hinges.   When the smoke cleared, Lena stood unharmed in a perfect circle of charred flooring. Her father stared from the hallway, the whiskey on his breath evaporating as the residual heat licked at his stubble. Behind him, the wallpaper peeled away in spirals.