There’s something extra surreal about watching a house fire from the start. At first, it looked like they were burning something in the chimney. The first firetruck seemed like an overreaction. Then smoke started seeping from other parts of the roof. A second and third firetruck arrived. By then, thick black smoke poured from the upstairs windows. It only took about ten minutes for flames to lick up the side of the building. I’m still amazed how quickly it transformed from a place the firemen could walk into in their shirtsleeves to a billowing inferno. Soon there were four firetrucks, a dozen firemen, and near total silence but for the sound of windows shattering under heavy axes.

Rain poured down the whole time. A good thing, too, or else the house only six feet away would’ve doubtless been lost as well. Flames shot out from the second story windows, scorching the house next door. For awhile, I was sure it would catch.

No one had any idea what caused the blaze. Some said the owner was in jail, others said he was merely not home at the time. Regardless, no one was inside. I’m sure my feelings on the whole thing would be radically diferent if any lives had actually been at stake. As it is, it’d be easy to spin a satisfying suburban conspiracy theory, but it was probably something mundane - perhaps a space heater left on overnight, a smouldering cigarette butt, or a bad electrical outlet.

I couldn’t pull myself away. One minute it was an ordinary house. An hour later, it was a dangerous husk of a building in desperate need of being torn down. There’s something engrossing about watching that change.