Inferno

My mom called this morning to tell me that the house may burn down today, and, sure enough, it may. Hell, the whole goddamn county appears to be up in flames.

"Is there anything you want me to take with us when we evacuate?" she asked.

I thought for a moment, then asked her to take my journals, a lifetime's worth stuffed in a cupboard next to the bed I'd slept in since the 6th grade. It's been many years since I've written in them, but I still hesitated for a second, feeling a pang of the adolescent fear that she might read them.

I remember having to evacuate when I was in 8th grade; we fled through unpaved back-roads and stayed at my grandparents' house. Went to school the next day unsure whether I had a house to come back to. It turned out that we did, but the flames had claimed a swath of our land near the top of the hill, singeing the tool shed, turning some of the neighbors' homes into so many piles of charcoal.

This time, I don't know where my parents will go: it seems my grandparents' house is in danger, too. They can't find my brother, but I suspect he's all right--probably in a different evacuation facility with his 16-year-old girlfriend.

Ah, SoCal, what a paradise!