Just sixty seconds. But how long does it feel when the earth is moving under your feet? With buildings cascading all around you, and explosions ripping holes in the sidewalk. Ruptured gas mains blowing concrete and dust high into the clear bay sky.

Then come the flames, roaring down Market Street. Fire officers set dynamite charges in order to destroy buildings and create artificial firebreaks. Unfortunately, the fire officers had no training in this, and ended up contributing to the problem more than solving it. As word spread that their insurance policies didn’t cover earthquake damage, desperate homeowners and crafty businessmen began setting fire to their own properties. But the quake had ruptured the water main, and all attempts to bring the fires under control soon began to falter. People trapped in burning buildings begged the police to shoot them rather than be burned alive. The police obliged.

Three thousand people were dead before the end. But then, that wasn’t the end, was it? There’s never an end for those who survive. They have to go on living with the memories, trying to forget.

Do you remember the first time he took you to that place? The cold draft from the wind whistling up through the slatted floorboards. You thought it would just be the two of you, but he had other plans. He told you that you didn’t have to do anything you didn’t want to. You remember how his face changed when the others arrived, and you realized you didn’t know this man at all and that even if you did you no longer had any choice. You remember the pictures and the trophies lining the walls, boys and girls in green and brown uniforms looking down on you. You remember how they watched and they laughed.

But you survived all that. And more than that. It wasn’t the Big One for you.

The Big One is still to come.