journal_day05.txt

Five days now.

External temperature dropped to 215. The fires must be dying down. The roaring stopped sometime yesterday. Now it's just silent. That's almost worse.

Air quality is still critical. Smoke and ash and who knows what else.

I found playing cards in one of the bedroom drawers. Been playing solitaire. Lost every game.

The boss used to joke that these bunkers were for rich people who'd rather hide than help. I never thought about it much. It was just a job. Clean the toilets. Wipe down the granite. Make sure the DVDs were organized alphabetically. $18 an hour and health insurance.

Now I'm the rich person hiding. Except I'm not rich. And I'm not hiding. I'm just stuck.

I keep replaying Labour Day morning. If I'd stayed home. If I'd ignored the newsletter. If I'd gone to my brother's barbecue like I was supposed to.

My truck is probably melted. Or buried. Or both.

journal_day07.txt