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Authors: Caroline B. Cooney
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needed.
She had no sense that the fire was making the schedule, and they would have to stick to the fire’s schedule or die.
The Severyn House
4:02 P.M.
B EAU WAS UP AT the house, sounding like a madman, shrieking every possible variation on her name: Elisabeth — Lizzie — Liz — Elisabeth Severyn! If he didn’t keep quiet, he’d scare the bunnies.
Elisabeth not only had deer in her hidey hole, but she had been joined by real bunnies, sitting at her feet. Little noses working like little engines, little floppy ears twisting and turning as if on strings that Elisabeth herself were pulling.
Elisabeth didn’t answer Beau. Probably Mother or Daddy had phoned with instructions for how they were to spend the remainder of the day. Usefully. Elisabeth didn’t want to spend her time usefully. She didn’t want to improve her mind or her athletic or musical or social skills. She wanted to sit in the quiet green glade with suddenly tame rabbits and deer.
She held out her hand, but her guests didn’t notice. They were panting, their little flanks heaving. “Come see me,” she crooned. “Come let’s be friends.”
The Fire
4:02 P.M.
W AY ABOVE THE STACK of houses, a little bent tree clung to the canyon rim. It burned quietly. It didn’t flame, it didn’t turn orange and yellow, it didn’t scream for attention.
The fire burned through its skinny little rock-squeezed trunk, and it became a five-foot torch. The smoke tornado threw the little tree downhill like a human sacrifice in some terrible ancient religion.
It tumbled against rock and gravel and dust, and came to rest on a ledge just below the Severyn house.
And there, on the underside of the deck, it prepared for human sacrifice.
Grass Canyon Road
4:03 P.M.
T HE HOUSE WITH THE blazing roof was being abandoned. Swann could tell because the owner was sobbing as she scuttled in and out her front door with armloads of stuff that she threw into a magnificent car. Swann didn’t even know what kind of car it was, but it was old, really old, museum old; and so was the woman. Elegant and thin, the way they were out here till they died, no gravy on biscuits for them. Her hair ought to be white but, of course, was still golden.
Swann put on her most understanding smile, her gentlest expression. She hurried over to the elderly woman. “May I help? I’d be happy to get this stuff packed better. You’re wasting space. Here. I’ll put this box on the floor and then we’ll have more room on the seat. Quick, you go back and get some more.”
“Oh, thank you!” said the woman, rushing away.
It was a jewelry box. Grinning, Swann carried her trophy back to her parents. Pop had already turned the car around. Swann and her family wisely moved on.
Of course the highway patrol kept trying to stop people from going north on Grass Canyon Road, and of course people kept ignoring them, because they wanted to be where the action was. It was cool. Cherokees and Blazers and Mercedes were streaming down toward the Pacific Coast Highway. Some had not had time to get anything, and their shocked faces stared blindly out of their car windows, as if they had forgotten how to drive. People whose loss was so great they really had forgotten how to drive stood on the side of the road, sobbing.
“This is so neat,” said Swann. She was pretty sure the jewelry was real. “I’m glad we came to California.”
They stared for a while at a woman who seemed to have been burned. Her clothing was certainly charred, and her hands looked awfully weird. She moved toward them, confused and frightened, as if she needed help, so Swann’s father quickly accelerated around her.
Swann’s mother put on the pearls that had filled an entire drawer of the jewelry box, and they laughed at the effect of those generous strands against her obscene T-shirt.
A few blocks up, a firetruck barricaded the road. Annoyed, they left their car and walked past the barricades. The fires were very close here and you
She had no sense that the fire was making the schedule, and they would have to stick to the fire’s schedule or die.
The Severyn House
4:02 P.M.
B EAU WAS UP AT the house, sounding like a madman, shrieking every possible variation on her name: Elisabeth — Lizzie — Liz — Elisabeth Severyn! If he didn’t keep quiet, he’d scare the bunnies.
Elisabeth not only had deer in her hidey hole, but she had been joined by real bunnies, sitting at her feet. Little noses working like little engines, little floppy ears twisting and turning as if on strings that Elisabeth herself were pulling.
Elisabeth didn’t answer Beau. Probably Mother or Daddy had phoned with instructions for how they were to spend the remainder of the day. Usefully. Elisabeth didn’t want to spend her time usefully. She didn’t want to improve her mind or her athletic or musical or social skills. She wanted to sit in the quiet green glade with suddenly tame rabbits and deer.
She held out her hand, but her guests didn’t notice. They were panting, their little flanks heaving. “Come see me,” she crooned. “Come let’s be friends.”
The Fire
4:02 P.M.
W AY ABOVE THE STACK of houses, a little bent tree clung to the canyon rim. It burned quietly. It didn’t flame, it didn’t turn orange and yellow, it didn’t scream for attention.
The fire burned through its skinny little rock-squeezed trunk, and it became a five-foot torch. The smoke tornado threw the little tree downhill like a human sacrifice in some terrible ancient religion.
It tumbled against rock and gravel and dust, and came to rest on a ledge just below the Severyn house.
And there, on the underside of the deck, it prepared for human sacrifice.
Grass Canyon Road
4:03 P.M.
T HE HOUSE WITH THE blazing roof was being abandoned. Swann could tell because the owner was sobbing as she scuttled in and out her front door with armloads of stuff that she threw into a magnificent car. Swann didn’t even know what kind of car it was, but it was old, really old, museum old; and so was the woman. Elegant and thin, the way they were out here till they died, no gravy on biscuits for them. Her hair ought to be white but, of course, was still golden.
Swann put on her most understanding smile, her gentlest expression. She hurried over to the elderly woman. “May I help? I’d be happy to get this stuff packed better. You’re wasting space. Here. I’ll put this box on the floor and then we’ll have more room on the seat. Quick, you go back and get some more.”
“Oh, thank you!” said the woman, rushing away.
It was a jewelry box. Grinning, Swann carried her trophy back to her parents. Pop had already turned the car around. Swann and her family wisely moved on.
Of course the highway patrol kept trying to stop people from going north on Grass Canyon Road, and of course people kept ignoring them, because they wanted to be where the action was. It was cool. Cherokees and Blazers and Mercedes were streaming down toward the Pacific Coast Highway. Some had not had time to get anything, and their shocked faces stared blindly out of their car windows, as if they had forgotten how to drive. People whose loss was so great they really had forgotten how to drive stood on the side of the road, sobbing.
“This is so neat,” said Swann. She was pretty sure the jewelry was real. “I’m glad we came to California.”
They stared for a while at a woman who seemed to have been burned. Her clothing was certainly charred, and her hands looked awfully weird. She moved toward them, confused and frightened, as if she needed help, so Swann’s father quickly accelerated around her.
Swann’s mother put on the pearls that had filled an entire drawer of the jewelry box, and they laughed at the effect of those generous strands against her obscene T-shirt.
A few blocks up, a firetruck barricaded the road. Annoyed, they left their car and walked past the barricades. The fires were very close here and you
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