Iwoke the morning after Election Day on the wrong coast of the right country. A brush fire had come charging across the road, through two houses, and onto the cliffs above the sea. But I did not know that yet.

All I knew was that my phone was ringing, and when I picked up it was a friend, walking along the Atlantic in Palm Beach, where I was supposed to be, and she was dodging sources and subjects, like I was supposed to be, and when the conversation turned to a sensitive topic, right around the time I was wondering why my coffee was not brewing, the call dropped. The power was out.

A few minutes later, the planes swooped down to spray the flames in the bluffs. I watched from the Pacific Coast Highway, as far away from my problems as I could get on land, which was not far enough.

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