It was late October, and Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere, was in danger of being wiped off the map. In the grip of a record-breaking drought, towns and farms and forests could be reduced to ashes overnight—given a single spark and a high wind. Volunteer firefighters were on round-the-clock alert, and the congregations of fourteen churches prayed for snow. Not rain. Snow! Winter always began with a three-day blizzard, called the Big One, that buried everything under snow drifting to ten feet. So the good folk of Moose County waxed their snow shovels, bought antifreeze and earmuffs, stockpiled bottled water and flashlight batteries—and prayed.
Late one evening, in a condominium northeast of Pickax City, the county seat, a cat sat on a windowsill, stretching his neck, raising his nose, and sniffing. The man watching him thought, He smells a skunk. They had recently moved to the wooded area with its new sights, new sounds, new smells.
He went outdoors to investigate and found no sign of a skunk. It was a calm, quiet night—until the whoop of a police siren shattered the silence, followed by the honk-honk of a fire truck speeding south on a distant highway. The noise stopped abruptly as the emergency vehicles reached their destination. Reassured that another wildfire was under control, he went back indoors.
