Imagine its past midnight on April 19, 1906, less than 24 hours ago, Collier's magazine

contacted you by telegram, asking if you could rush to San Francisco, the city of your

birth and write a first-person story about the earthquake that just struck the region.

Now you're walking through Union Square Park, taking notes and snapping photographs.

The park is filled with days, refugees. You walk up to a line of people getting soup and

bread and strike up a conversation with an old man on crutches who seems happy to have

anyone to chat with.

Ah, today's my birthday, you know. Is that right? Well, happy birthday, sir, not much

of a celebration, I guess. No, sir, not the way I expected during in my 75th. Last night

I was worth $30,000. I bought bottles of wine and some nice fish for my dinner party.

But today, no wine, no dinner. Unless you count that watery soup over there. And all

I own now are these crutches. So you lost your house, everything? I assume so. The group

of soldiers chased me out. I think it's gone now. Just glad my wife, Rester, soul, isn't

here to see all this. She loved this city. Born and raised here. Keep thinking about

her, China collection. Oh, and her piano. I had to leave it all behind. Oh, my goodness,

what was that? That's our fire department at work. They're using dynamite to stop the

fires. Demolishing whole blocks before the fire spreads. That seems a bit drastic. Is

it working? The old man waves his arm toward the smoke, billowing up from nearby market

street. Oh, is it look like? Seems to me they're doing more harm than good, blowing up perfectly

good buildings. From what I've heard, starting more fires. Do you have a place to sleep

tonight? Oh, I found a spot over there in the grass. You see a collection of bodies, curled

up in bundles, a few tents, all surrounded by sacks and trunks of belongings. Beyond

...