Inside my bedroom, the blinds thrown wide, I can smell Quebec burning. Acreage the size of states is becoming molten, turning to carbon, immolating, so much Canadian land that even this far away, hundreds of miles, the sunset glows through a thick umber pall that smells of alarm, and makes me look around my room to locate my precious things and my nearest exits.

I have Quebecois friends there, and Quebecois friends here, and though I know they are likely all quite safe, my heart jags for a beat when I hear the man say, "Quebec is burning."

Though I've seen my friends recently enough to still smell them in my clothes, I miss them, and wish them in my arms, safe from the flames, and squinting with me into the hanging red haze.

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