While backing away from a bad date’s unwanted kiss, her blouse caught on fire, which she smelled but never felt. Later, she experimented with matches, then coals, then her entire arm in the fireplace—no marks, zero pain. She felt intrigued, but hardly excited, as with most everything: her partner who’d talked about proposing, her mid-level job at the special-events company, browsing art openings. In her heart, she knew this should ignite something within her—it was the most incendiary aspect of herself she’d ever discover. Yet she felt more stuck than ever. If this didn’t set her life aflame, what would?