I have just made a smoothie. My home is burning.

I share it with my dad. My home is burning.

A text pings into the din, glaring, and my home is burning.

I can smell it when I go outside, ashy and destructive in my nostrils. I brought the cat inside, not without struggle. My friend says it rains ash around his house. Just a few blocks away.

The cat howls, paws at the glass door, but I don’t want the smoke to hurt her lungs. I tell her she is too small. She doesn’t understand my garbled words. 

I brave the smoke, turn my key in the car and send plumes of exhaust into the atmosphere. It will only make the suffocating heat worse. I prioritize my errands over my breath. 

The store is cool. Fresh air and filtered particles. Everything uniform and clean, a refuge of mass-production. I go through the motions. Get the groceries. Get the tampons. Make sure they’re the type without the fragrance chemicals that hurt you. Know that the label might be lying.  Get the dogs some treats. Get dad’s favorite gin. Get an energy drink. Know it’s bad for you and drink it anyway.

I drive the way home, blasting music that drowns out the sirens. The car in front of me is too slow. I don’t honk. Sweat drips down my spine. It pools in the crevice behind my knees. The parking-lot concrete heat had stolen the air from my lungs, but in the car I swallow the sweet chill of air conditioning.

I don’t look at the gas prices. 

I don’t look at the grocery receipt.

The cat is still inside when I come home. We both smell like smoke. Ash sprinkles both of our faces. She howls and howls at the door but I don’t let her out. I close the door and close the windows and roll up towels to seal the cracks and don’t let any of the smoke stain my home.

The dogs bark at every little noise outside. Every little crackle and pop of the fire. I feed them treats. I do not want the fire to hurt their lungs either. 

My girlfriend calls on her way to work and my home is burning.