I'd been slumped in my squeaky office chair, counting the minutes until the midday heat lost its grip, when the radio crackled on the desk. One of our volunteers' voices trembled on the other end, asking for immediate backup. They'd spotted smoke rising from somewhere near the far boundary of our little

desert park. Normally, suspicious plumes of smoke meant yet another junker set ablaze,

something we saw often enough that it barely rattled me anymore. But the quiver in the

volunteer's tone gnawed at me. Something about this situation felt off. Without waiting for protocol or double-checking

any sign-out sheets, I grabbed my keys and waved my co-worker Mani over. We piled into our dusty truck

and took off down the barren road, nothing but a shimmer of heat on the horizon. My mind kept

replaying worst-case scenarios, a wildfire blazing

out of control, folks trapped in a gutted vehicle, or maybe something darker I couldn't

fully process yet. The desert seemed too quiet as we sped toward the site. Normally I'd catch

glimpses of desert hairs scuttling across the road or a hawk circling overhead.

Not this time.

The entire place felt as if it was bracing for bad news.

Mani fiddled with the radio, trying to reach the volunteers again, but all we got was static

laced with muffled crackles.

Each burst of static made me grip the steering wheel tighter.

We rounded a bend and spotted thick smoke curling into the sky. That acrid scent of burned

rubber and metal practically tore through the truck's ventilation. We pulled up, tires crunching on

gravel, and the volunteers waved us over, their faces drained of color.

I stepped out and got an immediate taste of heat so intense it felt like a furnace blast.

The car in question was more of a scorched metal skeleton at this point, the flames mostly

dying down but leaving behind angry black fumes.

Mani and I exchanged uneasy glances. We dealt with

...