People seem to be stopping, pulling in where ever they can to get a good view
of the fire. By this point a crowd has gathered, not at all alarmed by their proximity and
almost completely unaware of Vera. Too busy now watching the fire fighters in their
choreographed fury of red truck, yellow canvas and water. They bust out the windows.
The pressure inside is immediately released. And with it, the assurance that no one is left
inside, the crowd exhales.
“Oh my caaaar . . . and my haiiir,” Vera wails.
We continue to tell her that it doesn’t matter, that it’s going to be okay, that she’s
more important than any old stinking car anyway, and wigs can be bought. We continue
to watch the firemen dance around with their hoses and axes. Spraying water in the engine
and gas tank. Threat diminished. Car no longer on fire, but eternally out of commission.
A fireman finally come up, look around quizzically, being directed towards us but
with no sign of a victim. I jogged towards him non-challently—we had it taken care of.
Mostly. Kinda. I was happy to see him, not going to lie. As I told him what I saw and what
we had done I knew it was over. I didn’t need to know her na