At first it's just one fire, around 10:30 AM, small at first, but growing. My family turns our TV on, and soon we're seeing images of houses on fire and abandoned cars on the road being pushed aside by a bulldozer. An event becomes a disaster.
The second fire starts in the evening, and my dad shows me a phone photo taken from his friend's house, showing an orange glow in the foothills. I shrug, feeling unsurprised, wanting to play it off, but I soon find myself watching the news in grim fascination as whole neighborhoods burn behind the reporters. They stand just feet from flames and showers of embers.
All of the local news stations take no commercial breaks. They are on air when we go to sleep and still on air when we turn the TV on again the next morning.
On the third day of the fires, I can no longer stand just sitting at home watching the news, so I look around for volunteering opportunities. They're very ad-hoc, and information is hard to find; Instagram Stories becomes the best source of information in my research.
My friend Corey and I end up going to a local restaurant that is acting as a sort of hub. The parking lot in front is a heroic jumble of activity. After asking around a bit, somebody suggests we check at the church next door where people are accepting donations and putting together care packages. It's a very inefficient operation. A glut of generosity is accumulating: blankets, clothes, toothbrushes, 36-packs of water bottles. A lady with a clipboard is trying to figure out if there are any shelters that will accept this outpouring of material. We stand around for a bit and help where we can, unloading and loading vehicles. I feel better to be doing something, even if I'm not sure how useful it is. It's reassuring to be among so many others who are all also trying to do something.
On the fourth day, I drive back to San Francisco. There's a layer of fine dust and ash over everything, and when I turn the car on, it blows out of the air vents. It feels inappropriate to be cheerful, so in the car, I tune to news radio rather than my usual music. My route takes me on the 210 freeway past some of the areas burned by the fires, but from the freeway I don't see much, and it feels almost oddly normal, though I know it's all there just out of sight.
Driving into the Bay Area, I roll down a window for a moment and am slightly shocked to feel how cool and clean and humid the air is. It feels almost rude that it's so pleasant and perfect here when the atmosphere is smoky and suffocating just a few hours away.
A short time later, I arrive in San Francisco. Here, fog rolls into the city, a few clouds float overhead in the clear night sky, people go on their evening walks, and the fires are just a distant fact.
