The house two doors down caught fire last night. Flames gasped for air and firetrucks and aid vehicles clogged my neighborhood.

I’d been dreaming and the sirens gradually worked into my dreams: I began to dream that my house was on fire. But the sirens kept coming, and when each one ceased I was conscious of the sound of engines running. Then, one of the firetrucks got stuck on the roundabout and the alternating growling and screeching it made scooching around the tight turn sounded familiar; I decided it was time to get up. So I walked over to the window, pulled up the blinds, and there was the fire, lapping at eaves less than a football field away.

I called Andrew. "The house across the street is on fire—Go outside and take a look!" Or, he could come watch it from my house, which he did.

My apartment is level with the rooftops. I sat on the end of my bed and watched as the burning house went out like a match. By the time Andrew arrived, firefighters were on the roof using a chainsaw to gain access to the attic. We watched as flashlights disappeared into the hole and reappeared again.

On the street, firetrucks repositioned themselves and firefighters strolled the sidewalks like neighbors, except they were draped in that heavy flame-retardant gear and packing oxygen tanks.

Freaked-out cats darted across nearby rooftops and yards.

An hour later, the neighborhood still awash in strobing red and white lights, Andrew left and I went back to bed. I dreamt that I was at Urasenke, telling Bonnie and Tim all about the fire on my street.