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PROLOGUE - THE COLOR OF THE SKY By the time the sky turns that color, it's already too late. Not orange. Not red. Something dirtier-like rust mixed with bruised purple, a sky that looks burned rather than lit. That was the first sign I noticed that evening, standing still for a moment longer than I should have, staring west. Southern California sunsets are supposed to be beautiful. This one felt accusatory. The air was wrong. Heavy without humidity. Dry enough that every breath felt unfinished. Somewhere far off, sirens layered over one another, no longer distinct enough to count. When the phone rang, I already knew it wouldn't be a false alarm

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