They drove over at speed, Suzanne wedged into Lester's frankensmartcar, practically under his armpit, and Perry traveling with Francis. Lester still wore the same cologne as her father, and when she opened the window, its smell was replaced by the burning-tires smell of the fire. They arrived to discover a fire-truck parked on the side of the freeway nearest the shantytown. The fire-fighters were standing soberly beside it, watching the fire rage across the canal. They rushed for the footbridge and a firefighter blocked their way. "Sorry, it's not safe," he said. He was Latino, good looking, like a movie star, bronze skin flickering with copper highlights from the fire. "I live there," Francis said. "That's my home." The firefighter looked away. "It's not safe," he said. "Why aren't you fighting the fire?" Suzanne said. Francis's head snapped around. "You're not fighting the fire! You're going to let our houses burn!" A couple more fire-fighters trickled over. Across the river, the fire had consumed half of the little settlement. Some of the residents were operating a slow and ponderous bucket-brigade from the canal, while others ran into the unburned buildings and emerged clutching armloads of belongings, bits of furniture, boxes of photos. "Sir," the movie-star said, "the owner of this property has asked us not to intervene. Since there's no imminent risk to life and no risk of the burn spreading off his property, we can't trespass to put out the fire. Our hands are tied." "The owner?" Francis spat. "This land is in title dispute. The court case has been underway for twenty years now. What owner?" The movie-star shrugged. "That's all I know, sir." Across the canal, the fire was spreading, and the bucket brigade was falling back. Suzanne could feel the heat now, like putting your face in the steam from a boiling kettle. Francis seethed, looking from the firemen and their truck back to the fire. He looked like he was going to pop something, or start shouting, or charge into the flames. Suzanne grabbed his hand and walked him over to the truck and grabbed the first firefighter she encountered. "I'm Suzanne Church, from the San Jose Mercury News, a McClatchy paper. I'd like to speak to the commanding officer on the scene, please." She hadn't been with the Merc for months, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to say, *I'm Suzanne Church with SuzanneChurch.org.* She was pretty sure that no matter how high her readership was and how profitable her ad sales were, the fire-fighter wouldn't have been galvanized into the action that was invoked when she mentioned the name of a real newspaper.