In some boxes of my father's things, I recently found a small book written in 1876 by a reverend named Theodore Kyler.

It's titled The Empty Crib, a Memorial of Little Georgie.

Georgie was Reverend Kyler's five-year-old son, who died as many children ate in those days of scarlet fever,

a bacterial infection now treatable with antibiotics.

Reverend Kyler wrote the book for other parents who'd lost children, saying he hoped it might be, in his words,

a solace and a blessing to some hearts in the great household of the sorrowing. This is the largest

household in the world, he went on to write. There's hardly a dwelling in which there's not one

dead. In almost every home, there are stored away among its most cherished treasures, a little

photograph, or a box of toys, a torn kite, a half-worn cap, or a pair of tiny shoes.

They all tell a story too deep for tears.

I'm in Los Angeles right now.

I've been covering the fires since last Tuesday.

The dead are still being counted in search for, and so many

families have lost their homes. Many here now live in the household of the suffering.

This is another house which has just exploded in a fire like over here, this fire has no spread to this

vehicle. I'm actually going to, I fire has no spread to this vehicle.

I'm actually going to, I'm obviously going to move away now.

This car is about to...

Last Wednesday, I woke up in Hollywood, got a nice coffee.

People around me were on their way to work.

I got in a car, drove about 20 minutes into Altadena,

and for the next eight hours, my crew and I documented

...