The year is 2000, and I am on summer break from my first year of college. It is six months since we all survived the y2k bug, six months since the dramatic falling out between my me and high school best friend over a boy from Canada who we met in an Internet chat room. The Boy (as all my college friends call him derisively) and I have been dating for those six months, and for most of that time I have been practicing Wicca, otherwise known as modern witchcraft. Today I am in a van headed to Williamsburg, VA with my parents and brother for a week long family vacation.
My father’s cell phone rings. My grandmother just called to tell us that our house has burned down.
“It’s gone…” she tells my father, and he hurriedly tells my mother to pull over. “Easy for you to say,” she mutters, glancing at the three lanes of traffic between her and the shoulder.