The ominous scarlet glow bleeds through the night sky like the first nervous splatters of a glorious

sunrise, and a vision of desperate trees is silhouetted against the light of the blaze. No light comes from our house; the fire has destroyed the electricity lines. Our garden is lit only by the shimmer of danger from behind the spinney of trees. The roar of the blaze is drawing closer all the while, and my family and I are panicking. From houses all around we hear screams and crying children, but our own voices are quiet with petrified shock. Glancing around at each other as we gather up the few possessions we can, the only glint in my mothers eyes is of fire and fright. If I could see her skin, I know it would be pale and white and her voice whimpering and whispered. The stench in the air is of smoke and panic and running away. There is no time for heroism; we are all in this together and if you make a mistake, its your mistake. Every now and then the relieving drone of a helicopter can be heard passing overhead or over the forest. When they drop the thousands of litres of water they carry, the sound changes to that of evaporation; the harsh and vicious fizzing tells us that we are being helped and gives us momentary reassurance. My father turns on our portable radio. There is a man with no regional accent and an irritating calm in his voice continually telling us not to panic, because help is on its way to everyone. Well, where is it? I stop listening and gather more food in my backpack. Five more minutes, then were leaving. My father procrastinates a lot; itll be half an hour before we get out of the door. The dulcet tones of the radio man inform me that because the of precaution of firebreaks trenches dug in the ground to clear the area of dry vegetation and therefore fuel for the fire the risk of the flames engulfing our homes is greatly reduced. This overtly confident man has too much faith in precautions the forests trees are only a few metres from our back garden fence, and I can now see the orange mass of deadly flames licking at the trees closest to us. My father screams at us to hurry. The radio man tells me not to worry. He tells me all about the controlled backfires being burned to remove any fuel remaining and stop the blaze spreading. I curse at him as our fence receives the first few flashes of flame and throw the radio as far as I can out of my bedroom window. I desperately search my room for things to take with me, snatching up my copy of White Noise, my family tree book, a photograph of my brother and me and a small packet of wet wipes. I remember as a child playing that game with my friends, where wed have to say five things we would save if our house was on fire. Back then I said I would save such things as my favourite Barbie doll or my LEGO sets. Now Im just frantically grabbing at random items, theres no time to consider their sentimental value. I am panicking and leaving, fully in the knowledge that the rest of the stuff in my house probably wont survive the night. Taking one last, lingering look at the bedroom my mother and I spent a week redecorating last Easter, I slam my door shut and quickly make my way downstairs. I am not crying. I cant cry; I cant feel anything enough to cry.

In the lounge, my mother is sitting on the sofa, staring intently at the wall opposite her. Her eyes are dead. The passion and fire that I know so well which usually burns in her soul and lights up her beautiful face has disappeared, replaced with a bland, blank nothingness. My sister is in the kitchen, drinking water. I watch her drink and refill a glass of water four times without stopping. My father is pacing up and down the room, occasionally stopping and glancing out at the back garden, where the furious mass of colour and danger is slowly ripping its way toward us. I dont look any of them in the eye once. After my sister has drunk two more glasses of water, she comes back into the lounge and sits down on an armchair. Okay, honey, quickly do it and then we can leave. Quickly, my father tells her, his voice low and quiet, and shaking reluctantly, as if he is trying to conceal his nervous worry. I watch as my sister injects the top of her thigh with insulin. This is a very bad time to be diabetic. Shes only fourteen. When she is ready we collect our bags together and leave the house our family has lived in for over twenty-five years. We dont even bother to lock the door; it is clear to us all that very soon there will be no door to lock. My father leads the way, my mother close behind him. I take my sisters hand in mine and we follow our parents, who turn to check on us every few seconds, out onto the street. It is chaos out there. People are screaming and running and falling over each other, all with the same expression of pure panic and fright for their lives plastered across their sweating faces. The road is full of cars trying to get to safety. My father tells us that these are stupid people and that we would do better to make our way out of the neighbourhood on foot. We follow him almost in silence. Despite the hectic scenes flashing all around us, the only sound I can hear is the sound of my sisters and my heavy, short breaths telling us that we cant stop walking. If we stop walking, well lose our parents and if were on our own in this disaster, theres no telling what would happen to us. I cant even guess how long we walked for. We seemed to be following everybody else. It was like a pilgrimage of lonely people, too tired to acknowledge it but all escaping from the same disaster and all unable to find the words to speak. As we get further into the city and further away from the fire, the roar of the blaze begins to die down and the panicked screaming and desperate sobbing is a sound we can only hear behind us. After we walked for what seemed like hours, we were directed towards the high school on the hill, where we were told by a man in a highvisibility jacket that we would be able to spend the night, get some rest and have a meal. He told us that wed be safe there.