Excerpt of Not Everything Burns by Carri Karuhn

Prologue

 This wasn’t my first time back. Not even close.

Still, the acrid smell of burnt trees and ash clung to the air as I drove up the winding road. The devastation unfolded before my eyes like it always did—sudden, jarring, unreal. Each visit hit like the first.

It felt like landing on the moon—alien and desolate. But this wasn’t the moon; this was the aftermath of a firestorm fueled by a lethal mix of drought, powerful winds, stolen firewood, and sheer stupidity.

The sagebrush, chaparral, and oak trees had vanished. The deer, bobcats, hummingbirds, and hawks that once graced the canyon’s earth and skies were gone. All that remained was a scarred wasteland.

An eerie silence hung in the air. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. The houses that once marked my journey home were now heaps of rubble, scattered down the hillsides like the contents of a giant dumpster.

Low gray clouds pressed down over the canyon, their bottoms ragged and sagging. For a moment, I thought they looked like they wanted to cry. Where had they been when the rain was needed? When the fire ravaged the hillsides, devouring everything in its path? My home. My beloved pets.

The pet sitters I’d hired while I was in Mexico for Thanksgiving had panicked and fled without them—or so they claimed.

I drove up to the ruins of my house, parked, and stepped out. Everything was silent, save for the howling wind. Across the canyon, the Santa Monica Mountains stretched out, gray and lifeless.

Ribbons of fire retardant still draped the landscape, dropped by helicopters in a desperate attempt to hold back the one hundred-foot flames. I tried to picture the chaos: neighbors fleeing in the night, driving single file down the narrow canyon road with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The flames roared like a freight train—drowning out exploding propane tanks, the crackle of brush, the howl of wind as embers flew sideways, landing on rooftops, in trees, in brittle undergrowth, igniting new fires wherever they fell. That’s how neighbors described it, at least.

Raindrops began to fall in a steady drizzle. I sighed. The water would make digging harder; the ash would turn heavy, like wet sand. But I had to try. I had to find my cherished rings. I’d left them in the bathroom before leaving for vacation.

I popped open the trunk, pulled out a shovel, crossed the road, and stood in my front yard. I scoffed. There was nothing left but the driveway, the house reduced to rubble. Even the fireplace had collapsed. The trees were scorched. The gas grill had melted into the concrete patio. My rose bushes were charred into matchsticks

Everything was gone. Totaled. Except for the bright white FOR SALE sign, standing unscathed. It squeaked back and forth in the wind. I’d listed the house just before the fire. Now, there was no house left to sell. Why would the fire spare a realtor’s sign but not my animals—the ones I’d fought so hard to rescue?

Maggie, from a junkyard.

Ponce de Leon, found by the highway.
Sweet Esther, from an overcrowded shelter.

This should never have happened! They weren’t supposed to die this way! I wasn’t here to save them this time! 

I turned to the memorials I’d placed just days ago: an angel, a cat-shaped planter, and a statue of a puppy with its paw resting on a ball. I had set them at the edge of the property.

But wait! The lawn was bare. Dry. Sunken with faint impressions of where they once stood.

The memorials were gone. I blinked and scanned the area again. Nothing.

Something inside me collapsed. A hollowing out. Even the last small thing I’d tried to protect was gone.

I stood there, stuck, my chest tight, breath coming shallow and fast. It was too much.

I backed away, my heart pounding, the weight of it pressing down until I couldn’t stay there. Not now.

I bolted for the car. I had treated the ruins of my home like a gravesite. Sacred ground. And now even that had been taken from me. I had to get out before I fell apart.

I floored the gas and sped down the road, tears blurring my vision. Anger and grief tangled together, impossible to separate. Eventually I pulled over beneath a grove of blackened oak trees. The silence closed in, and I broke down, shoulders shaking, my face buried in my hands

Was there anything they hadn’t taken?

My marriage was gone.

My animals were gone.

My house was gone.

Insurance refused to pay. The mortgage company wanted its pound of flesh—and more. Grifters circled like vultures. The men who started the fire still walked free.

And now this.

The final insult: Looters had stolen my animals’ headstones.

I looked up at the trees, squinting against the light filtering through their scorched leaves. I felt like I was being erased. Am I that horrible? Do I not deserve to be here? My heart felt like glass—shattered, scattered, impossible to put back together. The grief crushed the air out of me. I felt so goddamn sorry for myself I wanted to disappear.

Then, as if someone had opened a window to let in a fresh breeze, a sense of peace washed over me.

Sitting there in my car, the veil between this world and the next lifted, and I found myself staring into . . . what? The universe? Yes, the universe.

It looked like a lunar eclipse stretched across my entire field of vision. The rim shimmered with faint hues—red, blue, white—the glowing corona. Energy flickered around me like fireflies.

I sensed a divine presence over my left shoulder and turned, expecting to see God or Jesus Christ. But no one was there. I focused on the corona again and wondered, What am I looking at?

Was it really the universe? If not . . . then what?

 I couldn’t see the ground in this strange place, but I felt as though I stood on a great precipice. One step, and I’d drift off into the void like an astronaut on a spacewalk.

But something warned me: Don’t. There was danger out there. I could become untethered, lost forever. So, I retreated.

Then, just as suddenly as it had lifted, the veil fell. I was back in my car, the air still and thick.

I wiped my tears, struck by a realization so simple, yet so profound:

Yes, my life was unraveling. Yes, it felt like everyone wanted a piece of me.

But I still had one thing they couldn’t take: choice. I could crawl into a hole and let them win, or I could come out swinging.

The rain stopped, and a beam of light pierced the retreating clouds.

The car’s stuffy air stung my lungs, so I opened the window. The rain had stirred up the ground, making the smell of soot even stronger. But now it smelled different. The earth will heal. It always does.

Somewhere, a bird chirped.

Another beam of light burst through the clouds, offering a sense of hope.

How does one bounce back from catastrophic loss? How do you save yourself from emotional and financial ruin? As far as I could tell, there was no instruction manual, no one pointing the way.

I had to figure it out on my own.

For a moment, I let myself admire the sunbeams. But then I knew: It was time to move forward. I had a long road ahead, and there was work to be done.

I shifted the car into gear and headed toward the light.