For the last two mornings, I’ve woken up from broken sleep in my house on Los Angeles’ east side in a blind panic, the smell of smoke permeating the air. The light slanting in is a horrible, eerie orange, illuminating the white kitchen cabinets like a nightmare projection screen. When I climb onto the roof, the air in every direction is full of dark, low, menacing clouds fed by smoke, blocking out the mountains and trees even just a few miles away.