I look at the documents she’s given us.They’re clearly photocopies of photocopies, the black lines a little unsteady, a little crooked on the page.
When this is over I should make better evacuation handouts, I think.These look like the directions to a church barbecue, not official documents.
“And remember, this is amandatoryevacuation,” says Mike’s voice from behind us, and we turn.
He looks tired, deep circles under his eyes, his uniform rumpled.
“We aren’t likely to drag anyone out of here in handcuffs, but don’t give people the choice to stay in their homes,” he goes on.“Knock on every door.If there’s no answer, go to the back door.Be a nuisance, but try to be compassionate.If anyone still refuses, alert us.”
“What about pets?”Lucy asks.
“The Ponderosa Ranch down Route Forty-Two is taking on stock animals for now,” Mike says, then looks questioningly at the volunteer woman in the orange shirt.“And household pets...?”
“They should take all pets with them and ask when they get to Ashlake,” she says.“The Humane Society was working on something last I checked.”
Sometimes, during evacuations, people just let their dogs and cats go free.As if a house cat or a Schnauzer can somehow escape a forest fire on its own.
I look down at the materials, mentally steeling myself.
“Anything else we should know?”I ask.
Mike sighs.
“This is the kind of area where a ranger knocking on a door will occasionally be greeted with a firearm,” he says reluctantly.“There’s never been a shooting incident, but if that happens, back away, don’t engage.If that asshole wants to burn to death, let ‘em.”
I almost smile at the dark joke.
“Got it,” I say.
Mike nods at the three of us, his hands on his hips.
“Thanks, guys,” he says.
We quickly splitup our side of the small town.The roads on the north side of Main Street wind further up the mountain, and they’re full of potholes and patches.The houses are spread out, and there’s no real rhyme or reason to them: some are pristine log cabins, probably some rich person’s vacation getaway.Some are little more than ramshackle plywood buildings with two busted cars out front and a porch sagging off the back.
But most are just regular houses, a regular size, regular cars in the driveway, a swing set in the back yard.
The first few houses are obviously empty, but I have to knock on all the doors, just to make sure, before I can stick the EVACUATED sign on the front door and check it off my list.We spend a lot of time worrying about the holdouts, the people who’ll refuse to leave for one reason or another, but they’re a tiny percentage of the population.
Most people, when they learn that there’s a mandatory fire evacuation in place, leave right away, because most people are pretty reasonable.
When I get to the fourth house, there’s a loaded sedan in the driveway and a little girl, maybe two years old, wearing a harness shaped like a monkey.The harness is attached to a leash that’s tied to the inside of the fence around the front yard.
Some alarms start going off in my head, and I walk a little faster toward the kid on the leash, then crouch down on the other side of the fence.
“Hey,” I say.
The little girl frowns at me, then stands, grabs her stuffed dog, and backs a couple of feet away.She doesn’t say anything.
Well, at least she knows stranger danger.
“Are your parents here?”I ask, glancing at the car.All four doors are open, so they’re probably around somewhere, but I still don’t like this, even though I know it’s probably the result of panicked parenting and not malicious.
“Can I help you?”a woman’s voice says from the door, sharply.
I stand up.
“I’m doing evacuation rounds with the Forest Service,” I say, glancing from the kid to her.
