What is being mapped here are so-called "desire paths", the routes through the woods that only the kids and the hobos know. Forgotten and overlooked infrastructure. The places where there is no "there". My whole life I've felt like I was in-between. An honor student taking OJT and working nights. A 30-year-old sculptor in the Fire Academy. A southern liberal.
And it's always back to these same houses. Single-story, low roofed, chain link fenced, concrete block. These houses that burn in minutes. Everybody's house is a mess. People are den animals who like to burrow in to their own mounds of stuff. Everyone has the same stuff. Very few people have walked into the number of strangers homes that I have. Just walked in with impunity. Looked at all the pictures on the wall. Rifled through the cabinets to find the medications. How many pressboard vanities have I seen falling apart? All of them. How many trailer floors have I fallen through? Remembering that trailer with the rookie firefighter that looked like they had rolled the carpet with a paint roller charged with feces. The negative image of the dead dog left on the floor when the animal was removed and the room cleared of the strange, thick, greasy yellow smoke.
I would give up my sense of smell in a heartbeat. The ratio of unpleasant to pleasant smells experienced is at least three to one.
And somewhere, down the hall, there's always a smoke detector chirping. Is that what it is? We've been wondering. For God's sake, yes! Me with a clipboard full of nine volts, changing out batteries while my crew addresses the patient.