Pete called me at work this afternoon from a roadside to say our next door neighbor’s house was on fire. He didn’t seem all that upset, but I threw a hissyfit at my desk. Siobhan tried to be comforting about the whole thing but I said a lot of things that sounded like, “Grrrrrr bzttttt keck keck guappppp.” When Pete called me back from our backyard, the driveway was taped off, firefighters from three towns were smashing attic windows to let out smoke and I could tell Pete wasn’t telling me the whole story. I got on my bicycle and rode home, searching the sky for signs of smoke. At home, our cats were also freaking out.

For hours, emergency vehicles blocked off our street and about two dozen firefighters moved around like warmly dressed chess pieces. By the time I got home, the fire was out and the investigation was beginning. The neighbors leaned on a car across the street, looking shell shocked. Pete and I invited them in to sit down, but the police took turns asking them questions. Later, one of the officers told Pete there’d been three fires in three days and one of them differed from the others. When we walked to the main street later, we saw this and thought it looked very suspicious.

We joined a farm share program, which led to me writing a check that made me hyperventilate. We live modestly, so a whole season’s vegetables all at once really add up. Thus, when Pete puts a plate like this one filled with carrots, cabbage, onions, green beans and herbed compound butter in front of me it is as if we are rewarding ourselves for making an unnerving leap of faith.

Our street smells like smoke tonight. Our cats are finally calm.