The Choice

(This story is about a fire evacuation.)

The air filter machine whirred in competition with the TV anchor's urgent plea for viewers to follow local authorities' edicts. My phone showed "Evacuation Zone Level 2," meaning "Be set to depart on a moment's notice." John and I had been through this before but never had to leave.

Usually, I liked the expansive view from the east window, but today, the emerging tsunami of red and brown toxic smoke felt apocalyptic. Deep inhale. Breathing is still okay. Asthma medicine holding up. 

Still staring out the window, I witnessed hummingbirds waiting for their turn at the feeder like they do on a snowy day, carb-loading before hunkering down. The skies, vacant of other birds, snowed ash that littered the deck and railing. A doe's hooves pounded through the yard, followed by her twin fawns. To think they'd nursed on our property two months ago. Run to the lake, sweet ones, I warned them in my head. They act on instinct, whereas we humans can plan.

When John and I moved to Oregon 35 years ago, fires weren't a concern in suburbia. We laughed because we former Californians had trouble starting flames in the woodstove. We created emergency kits for the promised "big one" earthquake and the possibility of a volcanic eruption like Mt. St. Helens in 1980. When fires threatened us before, John claimed the sparks wouldn't jump the highway and river, which provided a natural firebreak. We were safe here, he'd say, but he'd been gone a year, and I missed his assurances now.

As I returned to the sofa to watch the meteorologist predict wind patterns, my evacuation supplies cluttering the entryway gave me comfort. They contained the usual suspects of cherished photos, jewelry, important papers, and irreplaceable hand-knitted sweaters. I looked forward to putting everything back where it belonged. But then, simultaneously, my phone buzzed, and the TV emitted a high-pitched sound, pushing my heart into my stomach. Level 3: Evacuate Now! Damn.

My heart fluttered like a jackhammer, and my pits dripped with sweat. Although my pile of stuff exceeded what I could fit in the car, I ran throughout the house, hoping that irreplaceable items would call out. I grabbed two photo albums without knowing their contents. My phone rang.

"Hello?" My neighbor Sharon kindly checked in.

"Did you hear we have to evacuate?"

"Yes, can you believe it?"

"Would you like to come with us?"

"Wow. You have room in the car?"

"If you only bring one small suitcase. We're packing up. We'll come by in 15 minutes. Okay?"

"Thanks! I'll be ready."

I agreed impulsively but welcomed being part of a refugee pack rather than going alone. My evacuation plan wholly changed since I wouldn't have my own vehicle. As I ran downstairs to grab my small duffel bag, the adrenaline surge gave me focus, and I ticked through the items most vital to me. Photo of John. Willy's collar. Hand-drawn etching of our first home. Baggie of jewelry. Dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice. Important papers. Toiletry kit. After those, I fit in a few clothes, and the bag filled up. 

Fifteen minutes passed quickly, but I knew the Johnsons would be late because time management wasn't Sharon's strong suit. Plus, they needed to pack for their son and dog as well. I peered out the front window for them, just the same. Something moved near the maple tree near the front door. I'd left out a tray of water for wildlife and saw an unusual animal drinking. It was a mottled white and brown furry creature, a rabbit. Not just any rabbit, a domesticated pet. 

I put on my N-95 mask to go out in the smoke and approached the bunny. The ball of fur ignored me as he slaked his thirst. Autopilot overtook me, and I entered the garage to find Willy's small carrier, which I hadn't yet had the heart to give away. Thoughts of my old, contented life with John and Willy intruded. My chest tightened with the longing, so I willed the memories away.

I returned to the front yard, where the bunny sniffed around, and I wondered how long he had lived off the land with so many coyotes around. Gingerly, I approached him with the carrier nearby and sat down. I gave him a gentle pet and then paused. He didn't flinch, so I grabbed him and pulled him close. His docile demeanor encouraged me, and I placed him in the carrier. 

What was I doing? Was I taking the bunny with me? If so, I needed food and water for him. Was I acting like a crazy person in an emergency? I only knew that if I left the rabbit here, he would perish from the fire or predators. With my world in disarray, I had little control. Saving this precious creature gave me a concrete action to take. I gathered carrots and lettuce from the garden, water, and a blanket for the carrier. Just as I managed all that, the Johnsons drove up the driveway. 

Their packed-to-the-brim SUV idled near the garage. What a sight I must be, a hot, disheveled, mask-wearing senior woman standing next to a small carrier framed by the red sky. Neal drove, Sharon sat in the passenger seat, and I could see the top of Elliot's head. No doubt the dog lay kenneled in the back. Bless them for saving a tiny spot for me. Sharon's window powered down.

"Hi. Are you ready? As you can see, we have room for you, but you'll have to put your bag on your lap."

"Uh…" 

"What do you have there?" Sharon stared at the small dog carrier with something inside.

"It's a rabbit. Someone's pet. He just showed up, and I can't leave him."

"Oh, Annie. We just don't have the room." She made a sad face.

"We need to get going. Now, please," said Neal.

Sharon got out of the car. She and Neal had been so kind to me through the years, especially after John died. Never a holiday passed without welcoming me over. Placing her hands on my shoulders, Sharon looked at me with a mix of caring and pragmatism.

"I'm sorry, Annie. You need to choose and quickly. We need to beat the traffic and leave now. There's room for you and your duffel. We're fleeing for our lives here. Animals are cunning, even pets. Let's hope for the best."

Neal tapped lightly on the horn. He was a good man, and I didn't blame him for the nudge. 

"I just can't, Sharon. I've lost John. I've lost Willy. I may lose my house and all my possessions." As I verbalized the words, my throat caught. "For some inexplicable reason, saving this bunny gives me hope for the future."

Sharon lifted my duffel bag and put it on the backseat floor. She came back for me and gently grabbed my arm. 

"You get in, and I'll take care of the rabbit. Okay? We need to escape now."

"No! I've changed my mind. I'm not going with you." My body quivered, and my eyes burned from the smoke. "Which shelter are you going to? I'll meet you there."

"We're going to Idaho. We have friends and family there." Idaho, a minor detail we'd yet to discuss in the mayhem.

"Well, this is goodbye then." I reached out my arms to offer Sharon a hug. We embraced, and then she returned my bag and quickly jumped back into the car.

She turned to look at her son, then back at me. "Elliot says to head to the fairgrounds. They have room for you and allow farm animals. Okay?"

Bless Elliot and his research skills. All three shouted "Goodbye" and "Good luck."

I waved, and they departed. My stomach lurched, and acid burned up my throat into my mouth. I coughed partly from that and partly from the billowing smoke. As I bent down to look at the bunny, I saw him chomping on a carrot I had given him earlier. His obliviousness grounded me. 

My phone buzzed with another notice: "Evacuate immediately." As the experts suggest, I unlocked the house doors for the fire personnel. Contrary to my lock-all-the-doors mentality, this antithetical act made my stomach twinge. I hurried around, grabbed my purse, duffel, and the animal carrier, and placed them all in the car. The rest didn't matter because we had to escape. The bunny rode shotgun.

I backed the car out and turned it to point down the driveway. As I drove forward, I looked in the rearview mirror at our home of thirty years. I hoped it would still be standing when I returned. 

My hands trembled on the steering wheel, so I gripped harder to stop the shaking. I peered down at the fluff ball, wiggling his nose as I rolled slowly toward the road. You need a name, little feller. Is Lucky too corny? With a bit of luck, we'll get through this together. I reached the street, saw an opening, and punched it.