The first time it happened it was like a whisper.
It was a scorching late summer day, the Santa Ana winds blowing westward from the inland desert toward the coast. Malibu’s mother called it earthquake weather, which caused Malibu, who was sixteen, to think of the earth ripping open, buildings tumbling, her world falling apart. Life can change in a snap. Malibu’s family lived twenty blocks or so east of Ocean Avenue, close enough to the Pacific that on most days she could feel an ocean breeze. Not that day. The hot, inland wind caused the hair on the back of Malibu’s neck to bristle. It felt disorienting, almost unreal.
Malibu’s family home was small, with a postage stamp-sized backyard, but it was big enough for their dog, Sadie, to chase a squirrel up a tree. That day, when high school
