On Tuesday, January 7th, in Los Angeles, our year began with wildfire like no other. I first learned about the Palisades Fire, which ignited at 10:30 a.m. in the affluent Pacific Palisades neighborhood, when I tuned into our local TV news broadcast at noon that day. At that moment, I was not alarmed. Like earthquakes, wildfires all year round have become a part of living in California. Besides, this was not the first wildfire in this area. On December 9th, 2024, the Franklin Fire had set more than 4,000 acres (16 square kilometers) ablaze in neighboring Malibu over nine days.

When I tuned in again that evening around eight o’clock, I was shocked to learn that a second wildfire, named the Eaton Fire, had ignited further inland in Altadena, a working-class community just north of Pasadena, where the New Year’s Day Tournament of Roses Parade had celebrated “Best Day Ever!” as its theme for 2025. Who knew then, that the best day ever would end in tragedy seven days later for thousands of Altadena residents?

Even more alarming, the Palisades Fire, driven by exceptionally fierce Santa Ana winds blowing offshore from over the San Gabriel Mountains, was spreading like the fiery breath of an angry dragon. On following the local live newsfeed, I learned that an Evacuation Order went out for an area in the neighboring city of Santa Monica on the southeastern edge of the fire. My heart fluttered. The Palisades Fire was advancing closer to our home. How could this be happening?