The fire’s still burning, though in the daylight and the haze of smoke it’s harder to see. I can’t tell if it’s spread or not, but it’s definitely still kicking. Thick clouds of smoke rise up along the horizon. Helicopters and tanker planes drop water and retardant from above, and I can barely make out streams of water from pumper trucks.

“Hell of a sight, isn’t it?” Vivian says. She comes up behind the couch, eyes sunken, pulled-back hair matted with sweat. Like everybody else here who isn’t me, she’s changed into something for the heat, shorts and a tank top. I’m the only one here wearing pants.

“How long was I out?” I say. She takes a cigarette from behind her ear and lights it with a flick of her fingers. She takes a long draw before exhaling. I didn’t know she smoked. But then, there’s a lot I don’t know about her these days.

“Twelve hours, give or take,” she says, voice flat and empty, eyes never leaving the fire out the window. “Once I knew you weren’t having a heart attack, I had a couple of the guys toss you onto the couch to get through whatever the fuck it was you were going through.”

She finally looks at me. “What the fuck were you going through?”

There are things about necromancy I never talked to her about when we were together. Some were things I didn’t know, hadn’t learned yet. Others were things I didn’t want to talk about. Like this.

“I can tell when people die,” I say. “I feel it. Half a dozen I don’t even notice, but you start ratcheting up the numbers? Well, a lot of people died last night. It was . . . unpleasant.”

“Looked it. You always been like that?”

“Yeah. Usually I can ignore it.”

“Never told me about that.”

“Yeah, well, that’s like bringing up a wart on your asshole. It’s not something that makes for good sexytime talk.”

She takes another drag on her cigarette. “The news says estimates are at about 800 dead. Mostly night shift workers in Vernon, but some residents in Alameda and South Park. Houses and apartments collapsed from the shock waves, some burned down. They’re saying it’s the worst disaster L.A.’s seen. They’ve declared a state of emergency and are trying to evacuate people from areas around the fire. Hospitals are swamped.”

“Kinda surprised you’re not helping out in an emergency room.” I’ve never seen Vivian like this. There’s no animation in her voice. She’s not angry, not sad, not manic. The hell is wrong with her?

“I don’t do that anymore,” she says. I want to ask why, but something in her tone tells me that’s a bad idea.

“It’s gonna get worse,” I say.

“They’ll get it under control.”