“Ten minutes, you say. f*****g everywhere.”
“f*****g everywhere ... and not just that but, but the sky is wrong. I mean, it’s like, it’s like it’s boiling. Like they’ve set fire to it—only the color is all wrong. All I know is, we’ve got to go.”
“... these fires erupted shortly after sundown, ah, I think we counted about, I would say, anywhere between six and ten of them as we drove down the Harbor Freeway. There were fires burning off of, ah, Manchester Avenue. And the power was completely out. And as we drove down the street, as cautiously as we could, we saw people looting in the stores, carrying whatever they could—large tv sets, clothing, shoes ...”
“Ten minutes.”
I look at Peter, who looks back even as glass from one of the broken windows crunches and I realize we have a visitor—
