Mandatory evacuations as more homes are threatened. But there aren’t enough shelters, enough beds, enough air conditioning, enough water. It’s almost 100 degrees out and it’s only six a.m.

People are being bussed down to Long Beach and San Diego as more firefighters come up to join the fight. It’s the worst fire disaster in L.A.’s history and everybody with a hard hat and a hose is helping to put out the blaze.

The 110, 710, and 5 freeways are out of commission, so heading south means surface streets outside the evacuation zone, the 605 way the fuck out to the east, or the 405, which is a clusterfuck at the best of times.

Oh, and did I mention that part of the L.A. River is on fire, now? Yeah. Part of the L.A. River is on fire. Good times.

That’s that part down. I know MacFee will deliver. Hopefully I’ll still be alive to collect. The rest of my morning is just going to get progressively more uncomfortable.

I expect that the route down past MacArthur Park is going to be a mess, like everywhere else today. But all the lights are green, and the cars in front of and behind me are far enough away that I might as well be in my own little bubble. It takes a few blocks for me to clue in to the fact that that’s exactly where I am.

I get to the strip mall holding Santa Muerte’s church in record time. No cars in the lot. Boards covering the shattered windows. And of course I’m expected. The Saint of Last Resort isn’t going to let something like traffic get in the way of her consort coming to visit.

Tabitha, or whoever the fuck she is now, leans against the wall between the church and the laundromat, arms crossed. I stay in the car, engine idling.

Do I want to do this? Is it the only way, or just the most immediately convenient? After the last few hours of looking at it from multiple angles, possible outcomes, and really taking stock of what I have to work with, I can only answer the first question. Not just no, but fuck no.

But as to it being the only way—well, there is another. I could shoot myself. That’d put a wrench in the works, wouldn’t it? Certainly explains why Quetzalcoatl hasn’t killed me. I could end this all right now and the world would be demonstrably better off.

I’m seriously considering it.

I get out of the car and step in front of her, my expression flat to her look of smug satisfaction. “I knew you’d be back,” she says.

“Don’t. The only thing keeping me together right now is two lines of blow off the dashboard of a ’97 Corolla, and I am not in the mood.”