The acrid smell of smoke wakes me from a very peaceful sleep. I blink my eyes open, feeling disoriented for a couple of seconds. The room is shrouded in darkness, and there’s no visible smoke around. So where the hell is the smell coming from?
I freeze. Fuck. Throwing my legs to the side of the bed, I get up.
“Alistair, what’s the matter?” Chiara asks in a sleepy voice.
“Something isn’t right.”
Not bothering to put clothes on, I head out. Instead of being greeted by a midnight blue sky, an orange horizon has my undivided attention.
Wildfire.
Lord have mercy.
I run back inside the house, turning on the lights. “Chiara! Get up, get up.”
She sits up in bed, looking startled. “What happened?”
“The valley is on fire. We have to leave. It’s not safe here.”
She blinks a couple of times, unmoving, before she jumps out of bed. I put last night’s clothes on as fast as I can, forgetting my socks as I shove my feet into my boots. I look at Chiara, relieved when I see she dressed just as fast. I take her hand and together we run to the main house. I burst through the back door, calling out to my parents. Dad and Mom emerge down the corridor, wearing their pj’s.
“Alistair? What’s all that ruckus?”
“Wildfire is coming our way. We have to leave.”
It sickens me to witness the sorrowful glance my parents trade. The vineyard is everything they have, their dream. They only allow themselves that single exchange before spurring into action. While they get ready, I fill a duffel bag with supplies—food, medicine, and any item that might be necessary during an evacuation.
“What can I do?” Chiara asks.
“We need nonperishable food and water, lots of water,” I reply.
“We just bought a case yesterday,” Dad says as he comes into the kitchen.
“Where is Mom?”
“She’s packing clothes and other irreplaceable items.”
“I’ll go check if she needs help,” Chiara says before disappearing down the corridor.
Dad turns on the TV, and what we see on the news channel makes my heart twist in agony. The entire Sonoma region is in danger.
“Why weren’t you alerted?” I ask.
“I forgot to sign up for it.”
“Dad—”
“Now is not the time for sermons, son. Come on, let’s get the trucks loaded.”
Half an hour later, we’re on the road. The streets are already filled with smoke, and visibility is almost nil. When we get to town, flames have already claimed some of the buildings. Deputies from the Sonoma sheriff’s office are helping people evacuate. I see a family running on foot and don’t think twice as I stop the truck ahead of them.
“Get in the car!” I shout.
The father ushers his wife and son into my truck, saying a million thank-yous once they’re inside.
“This is so awful. We had no warning,” the woman says.
Chiara offers them water and gasps. “You’re hurt.”
The traffic is moving at a crawl, so I chance a look back at the woman. Indeed, there’s a nasty burn on her forearm. “We need to take you to the hospital.”
“They’re probably evacuating the nearest ones.”
I hold the steering wheel tighter as frustration simmers in my gut. We finally begin to move faster again as we exit the residential area. On the outskirts of town, I spot a couple of news vans and ambulances parked on the side of the road, so I stop the car. A deputy tries to get us to move on, but I explain we have someone who needs medical attention.
Both Chiara and I get out of the car to help the family. It’s not only the mother who‘s badly injured, but also the kid. The woman collapses in her husband’s arms, and finally the deputy understands the gravity of the situation. I pick up the kid and take him to the paramedics.
I watch for a few minutes while they take care of the family I was lucky enough to spot in the middle of the road. If I hadn’t seen them, they probably wouldn’t have made it. Chiara is next to me, crying, and I throw my arm around her shoulders and kiss the top of her head. She looks up, her eyes wide and filled with tears. Soot blemishes her cheeks. I try to wipe it off with my thumb, only to make it worse.
“Alistair, we need to get moving, son.” My father’s head is sticking out of his car, a look of urgency on his face.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I say.
40
Chiara
When we got back to LA Saturday afternoon, I asked Alistair to drop me off at home; I didn’t want to be an extra burden on him while he tried to deal with the aftermath of the fire that most likely destroyed his parents’ vineyard. He protested like I thought he would, but he didn’t fight too much.
