Once Virgil’s day started, it didn’t let up.

In the morning, he, the County Sheriff, and Detective Donaldson fielded a small press meeting. More reporters had arrived, some from out of state. Within an hour of that, the first reports of the clash between police and squatters began to surface. The trickle outlet into an outpour at the speed of internet. Virgil’s desk phone started ringing just after lunch and never seemed to shut up.

In Squatter City, police had uncovered Robert Robertson Jr.’s shelter. The fugitive had left two dead, one man and one woman, their faces carved off and reattached after significant mutilation. It didn’t look like anyone had been in the place for a few days.

Reporters from the Oceanrest Chronicle wanted to know about the veracity of claims that police officers had attacked several homeless people the night before.

“What are you doing about this?” the Mayor asked.

“I’ll say we’re investigating…take the officers off active duty…” Virgil craned over his desk, phone to his ear, older than his age.

“And then what?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

A long pause. 

“Alright. Alright. Yeah. That’ll work.”

“Mm. Talk soon, then.” Virgil hung up. He buried his face in his hands, massaged his eyes. Groaned. Before he drew away, his computer ding’d an e-mail announcement. Another immediately followed. His cellphone buzzed on the desk. The phone rang.

Virgil sat up, suddenly alert. He grabbed the computer mouse and moved it. The cursor dragged and flickered. The speakers froze on the ding, repeating it over and over again. His cellphone buzzed. The desk phone trilled. Virgil pushed his chair away from the desk. He hesitated, hand over phone.

The monitor came to life. The room fell silent.

The door swung open.

“Sir, you—you’ve gotta see this.”

“What is it?” Virgil asked.

“A forest fire.”