Honeycrisps fill the bottom drawer of the fridge, skis rest in the corner of the bedroom, and the West Coast is burning. The smoke turned the sky dystopian last night: yellow haze and a screaming, bloody sun. The fires burn. Containment whispers. Helicopters buzz water across the freeway like a few tired locusts bringing thimbles to a dying man.
Wildfires scorch Canada to Montana to California, and we lie on the couches with fantasy novels and a folksy singer on the sound system. The house doesn’t have AC. Woe, woe. I’ll have trouble sleeping tonight. I can sleep through the Kims and the Kochs, with Houston underwater and Irma on a warpath. Wars and rumors of wars. I should buy some bottled water, just in case. Text a guy on Craigslist about a case of MREs. Is a $70 prep lazy, optimistic, fearful, or privileged?