My cell phone just rang with a mystery San Diego area code, and I answered it to find my parents’ neighbor informing me that fire trucks are all over their house and it looks chaotic. My brain goes into “okay, this is the inevitable crisis, I knew this was coming, at least it didn’t happen while I was out of the country.” I profusely thank her, then call my mother to find out that their smoke alarm doesn’t work properly and they’re getting an inspection. She’s fine, he’s fine, and they are still hiding out in suburban hell, refusing care and relocation.
Update: the back story. There was a coupon for a free alarm installation -- but Mom apparently called the wrong number and got emergency response instead. And hey, it was a slow day so the firemen spent a few hours fixing things. They noted their address for future visits -- sensing that in all likelihood they would be returning soon.
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