Life on Fire | zaumxs9

She dreams this morning of rain.

Beneath warm covers she stirs, ears straining for patter against the windowpane. Soon there is the sound of water rushing through creek beds outside, droplets pelting steadily against the roof. It’s a miracle. She doesn’t say the words, but she feels them.

When she wakes up and realizes the rain isn’t real, tears bite the backs of her eyes.

The call comes in the middle of the night. They wake to frantic shouts and pounding on the front door. The entire city is on fire, the man on the porch says.

Stumbling with the remnants of sleep, she and her husband throw items into bags. It feels random. Schoolbooks, passports, a laptop, a family photo album, an aquamarine necklace—the first gift he ever gave her. When everything could disappear, how do you decide what’s most important?

Outside, it becomes real. The scent of smoke hangs thick in the air. Above, a peculiar sky is lit up orange. We should take both cars, her husband says. Her heart quickens as she fumbles with keys. As she pulls out of the driveway, her wedding dress, hung in a cream bag in the back of the closet inside, flashes through her mind.

At the gas station, lines and lines of cars wait for their turn at the pump. The desperation is apocalyptic. This doesn’t happen here, she thinks.

They make it to safety at a friend’s home outside of town, where they crowd with others around a TV for answers. Our entire hometown is on fire. No, it isn’t. They learn it’s spreading throughout the county. Only certain pockets have been decimated. There is disagreement over which landmarks are still there. The LBC is gone. No, it’s still there. The school is fine. No, it’s gone. It’s coming here. No, we’re safe. Everyone is in danger.

The fires seem to have a mind of their own. They ferociously leap and spread, almost at random—or is it by design? Images on TV and social media show embers racing across asphalt and flames licking through trees as people struggle to escape. Other images show the grief-stricken faces of those staring at the ashes of their lives. Their grief bleeds into the room.

A man she once knew fills the TV screen. He is the father of an old high school friend. Behind him is the space where his home used to be—a beautiful house near the school they went to. She remembers spending nights there and sitting on the back patio that overlooked the green valley. Now, all that is left is grey rubble.

Calls and messages from loved ones from afar take the form of a homogenous blur. When she talks to her mother on phone, the words natural disaster feel foreign and misshapen in her mouth.

Are you ok?

Yes. No.

Her husband’s brother and his wife lose their house. She watches the video with them on the cellphone, taken by a neighbor who stayed behind. The only decipherable image is of a scorched car standing in the driveway. Beyond that, nothing but an ash heap. No evidence exists of the years of family get-togethers spent in the backyard, of games out played out front. They had just repainted the house and installed shiny new appliances inside. They were building a new fence.

What do you say? The consolatory hug isn’t enough. I’m sorry isn’t enough.

When disaster strikes, people’s true selves emerge. The heroes surface, the looters creep in. What does that make us? She thinks. We ran away.

The morning they leave their safe space, the sun hangs red in the smoky sky, casting an eerie glow on the scarred world beneath. On the walk to the car, she struggles to avoid breathing in the acrid air, winces at the crunch of leaves and branches underfoot. A fine layer of ash covers the cars, the buildings, the trees.

Their home still stands. Winds could pick up, people say. No one is safe yet. She takes in the greenery of the neighborhood, an untouched haven. How can this be? How can this be when so many others within the span of a few miles have lost everything?

We are the lucky ones, she thinks, trying to ignore the pinch of guilt.

She sweats beneath the white mask, lungs aching. A small piece of metal digs into her nose. Endless piles of worn, faded clothes lie before her for sorting. When she comes across pairs of used socks and underwear, she angrily throws them into a dumpster. The person in charge gave them license to do so. Volunteers mill about beneath the opaque sun, some making themselves useful, others standing around dubiously. It looks like it should be cool out, but it isn’t. Congealed pizza sits nearby in cardboard boxes, on top of papers stained with oil.

A family of five collects the bag she’s been putting together. Despite the mountains of clothes, the only size 34 she can find in men’s pants is a pair of stained corduroys. She hands the bag over to a woman, presumably the wife, diverting her eyes.

Time wears on, strangely. A faint semblance of routine comes into focus. On the drive to work, traffic backs up with rubberneckers straining to see the carnage. She keeps her eyes trained on the road ahead, clenching the steering wheel, resolving to ignore the charred landscape and dilapidated buildings that she used to recognize.

At the office, the community wants answers. When will my children go back to school? When will things be normal again? Can they ever be normal again?

They unpack their belongings, throw away rotten food, run loads of laundry. They sweep ash from the porch, rinse debris from their cars, set up an air purifier inside. The nights are hardest. It’s a relief to no longer be displaced, but home isn’t quite the same. It holds an air of betrayal, like a compromised sanctuary.

In bed, she lies awake waiting for pounding on the front door or the ping of a Nixle alert, even though they say the fires are near full containment. The danger has passed.

She presses her head deeper into the pillow, pulls the blanket tighter, and breathes the nightly reminder to herself, a chant by now. We’re the lucky ones.