Mark’s House Is Gone. Heather’s House Is Gone. Eddie’s House Is Gone.

Photo: Courtesy of the subject

The Eaton Fire started at the location of my first kiss. We used to park on the shaded lane across from the mountains and sneak past a cliffside house, through a fence, and between some brush to perch on a concrete slab that overlooked the canyon. There, above the narrow watershed, we drank peach schnapps, listening to the Cure, or Prince, or Erik B. & Rakim, and fooled around. Beneath our feet was some unidentified infrastructure, but “the lookout,” as we called it (obvious...