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Imagine it's a summer of 1852.

You're a young mother in San Francisco, whose husband is away mining his claim.

It's late at night, and you've just been awoken by the sound of bells clanging loudly.

You spring out of bed and call out to the nanny, asleep next door with your infant daughter.

Sarah! Sarah! It's the fire alarm. Help me wet the blankets.

Fires are a constant threat in the city, so you have a plan in place that you hope will save your home.

You grab some blankets from a bureau and race downstairs to dunk them in a barrel of rainwater in the kitchen.

All right, let's take these upstairs. I'll crawl out on the roof, and then you hand the blankets

to me. You spread the wet blankets across the shingles, hoping they'll stop the roof from igniting.

And when you're done, you scramble back inside, grab your daughter, and then run out of the house with Sarah following behind.

When you reach the street, you realize how much danger you were in.

Oh, God, the whole street's on fire.

Ma'am, you think those blankets are going to work?

I have no idea, but we need to get away from here.

As you turn away from your home and the burning hulks of your neighbor's houses,

you notice the wind shift, pushing the fire in a different direction.

Oh, we might have been blessed.

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