I’d taken five days off from traveling to return to San Francisco to visit our daughter and grandbaby, while Mike did some man-style fishing in Idaho (namely, dawn to dusk on the water and little hygiene in between.)
Koa went to Cousin Wanda’s Pet Sitter in Spokane for the duration, and was duly picked up, healthy and intact, by Mike before he fetched me from the airport.
But the fires caught up with us again in Spokane, Washington.
Coming down out of the clouds into smoke so heavy it looked like brown fog made me wish I could turn the plane right around and fly out again.
I reminded myself that the Bay Area had been subject to some of the worst fires in history since we’d moved there four years ago. Just because the skies were clear in San Francisco right now, didn’t mean they wouldn’t be terrible again before the rains came; didn’t mean our house wouldn’t be in danger once more, before fire season was over.
Mike coughed when I got in the car, and his voice was hoarse as we talked while …
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