“I love you, too, Manolo.”

With that, a thoroughly bewildered thirty-five-year-old mother hung up the phone and went into a controlled panic. She grabbed up armloads of provisions and tossed them into cardboard boxes, garbage bags, and anything else she could find. Within ten minutes she was speeding toward the boys’ school. Fortunately, she only had five blocks to drive.

She knew something awful must be happening. The whole town seemed to be in panic. People were running from house to house. The streets were choked with cars. Red lights and stop signs were useless, and at practically every intersection Cathy saw cars with steam pouring out from under the hoods. She couldn’t imagine what was happening, but it was obvious that people were in a state of alarm.

They were trying to get away from something, but they didn’t know which way to run—and all this chaos was taking place in the midst of blinding, searing heat.

Cathy parked at the curb and raced through the school until she found her three boys, one by one. First she located Miguel, twelve, then Ricardo, ten, and last, little Juan, seven. None of the teachers said anything or tried to stop Cathy as she ran into their classrooms, said one word—“Emergency”—and grabbed her boys.

She knew she must look like a madwoman, but she didn’t care. The three youngsters ran out of school behind their mother, aware that something big must be happening.

“It’s life and death,” she gasped as they piled into the car. “We have to meet your father on Mount Wilson. He said he’d explain later. Buckle up, boys. And pray that we can get out of here before the streets are all shut down.”

As she edged the car into the street, she glanced down at the gas gauge and saw that she had a full tank. My Manolo, the engineer, she thought. Thank God he has always insisted that the gas tanks be filled every night, “In case of an emergency.”

She drove as fast as she could to the 210 Freeway, but from the service road she could see that all four lanes were jammed. So she cut back through Pasadena and Des Canso Gardens to connect with Highway 2, which was a straight shot up to the San Gabriel Mountains and the Angeles National Forest.

Miraculously, the loop east and north toward Mount Wilson was still passable. Despite stalled cars and people running hysterically along the road, Cathy picked her way through the traffic and northward, slowly, mile by agonizing mile. After what seemed an eternity, she reached the Mount Wilson access road and turned back to the south and began the ascent. She longed to turn on the radio to find out what was happening, but she didn’t want her sons frightened by the news. Instead, with her right hand she reached for the rosary beads hanging from the rearview mirror. Silently, she began to pray.

MANUEL HAD ALREADY ARRIVED at the transmitter site near the summit. He unlocked the building door and stepped inside. The heat was unbearable. A quick glance at the gauges showed that the transmitter was unable to hold its assigned frequency. The dials and meters were dancing crazily, like a drunk weaving in and out of traffic on a crowded freeway.