Monday. 58.
I check the app before I check anything else. The weather app has a little colored dot now, next to the temperature. Green.
58 is good. I run four miles before the kids are up. My wife has coffee going when I get back. The kids eat cereal. They go to school. Nobody thinks about the dot.
Tuesday. 112.
The dot is orange when I wake up. Unhealthy for sensitive groups. My daughter is seven and has had an inhaler since she was four. She is, by every definition that matters, a sensitive group.
I check again at lunch. 126. The school hasn't said anything. I text my wife: Did you see the AQI? She texts back: Yeah. Indoor recess. She's fine.
I don't run. I tell myself it's because I'm tired. But I checked the number first and decided I was tired after.
Wednesday. 214.
The school sends a robocall at six in the morning. All outdoor activities canceled. My son, who is ten, says this is the best day of his life because he hates field day. My daughter asks why they can't go outside. I say the air isn't good today. She asks what's wrong with it. I say there's stuff in it you can't see.
She says oh.
214 is purple. The guidance says everyone should avoid prolonged outdoor exertion. I look at the word "exertion" for a while. Four miles every morning. That's exertion. Walking the dog is probably exertion. Carrying groceries from the car. I don't know where the line is, and the word doesn't help me find it. I walk the dog anyway, short loop, ten minutes. The dog doesn't check the app.
My wife finds the box fan in the basement. I drive to the hardware store for furnace filters. MERV 13, the internet says. They have six left. I buy four. I tape one to the front of the box fan with painter's tape and set it on high in the living room. It sounds like a small engine running. My daughter asks what it does. I say it cleans the air. She asks if the air inside is dirty too.
I say it might be, a little.
Thursday. 357.
I check before I'm all the way awake. The word underneath the number is "hazardous." Yesterday it said "unhealthy for sensitive groups." Today it just says "hazardous." Everyone.
The school calls again. Remote learning. My wife works from the kitchen table. I work from the couch. The kids sit between us on their laptops. We don't open the windows. We don't open the door except to let the dog into the backyard for two minutes. The box fan runs with its taped-on filter. I can hear it from every room.
I call the pediatrician to refill my daughter's albuterol. The nurse says they've had a lot of calls. She says it like she's been saying it all morning. The prescription will be ready in two hours. I drive to the pharmacy with the windows up, the car on recirculate. Three people inside are wearing N95s. I have one in my glove box from two years ago. I didn't wear it in. I don't know why.
My neighbor texts: You seeing this number?
I text back: Yeah.
He says his kid's been coughing since yesterday. I don't know what to say to that so I say Hope he feels better.
I don't run. I don't walk the dog. My son takes the dog into the backyard and I tell him to come back in. He says he's fine. I say come back in.
At four I check again. 381. At nine, 394. I put my phone face down on the counter and leave it there for an hour. Then I check again.
Friday. 412.
412 is worse than 357. I know that. But the difference between yesterday and today doesn't change what I do. I was already inside. I was already sealed up with the fan running and the dog looking at the door.
My wife makes pancakes. The kids do remote school. At some point I realize I've checked the app eleven times before noon. The number moves in a narrow band. 412, 398, 407, 419. I just keep looking at it.
My daughter uses her inhaler twice before lunch. She's fine. She's been fine. But I watch her breathe and I count without meaning to and I don't know what number I'm looking for there either.
I check whether the hardware store has MERV 13 filters back in stock. They don't. I have three left from Wednesday. I don't know how long this is supposed to last. Nobody seems to know how long this is supposed to last.
I pull the filter off the box fan. It's gray. It was white two days ago.
I put on a new one.
Saturday. 189.
189 is red. Still "unhealthy." But it was 412 yesterday and something in me loosens when I see it. A red number and I feel relief. I sit with that for a minute.
My wife says maybe we can open the windows for a little while. I check the hourly forecast. 189 now, 176 by noon, 201 by evening. We open the windows at eleven and close them at one. Two hours. The house feels different with the windows open. Five days and I'd already forgotten what moving air felt like.
I think about running. 189 is red. The guidance says avoid strenuous outdoor activity. I decide three miles counts as strenuous. I don't go.
My son goes into the backyard. I let him stay twenty minutes. He throws a tennis ball against the fence and catches it. My daughter watches from the sliding door. I tell her she can go out for a few minutes if she wants. She says she doesn't want to. I don't ask why.
My wife's mother calls. She has COPD and lives forty minutes north. She asks if we've checked her zip code. We pull it up. 204. We tell her to keep the windows closed. She says she's been inside for four days. She says she's fine. She says it the way people say it when they're not going to tell you otherwise.
Sunday. 134.
134 is the lowest number I've seen in six days. Orange. Unhealthy for sensitive groups.
The school sends an email. In-person classes resume Monday. Outdoor activities remain canceled until further notice.
I run. Three miles, slow. I come home and check the app and it says 141 and I don't know if seven points matters but I notice it. I notice all of them now.
My daughter asks if she can go to the park. I check. 141. I check the hourly. 150 by afternoon. I say maybe tomorrow. She says okay. She goes back to the living room and sits on the floor next to the box fan and lines up her blocks in a row, carefully, like she's building something that needs to be right. She doesn't ask again.
The box fan is still running. I could probably turn it off. The number is orange, not purple, not maroon. But I leave it on. It sounds like something working.
I'll check the number again in the morning. First thing. Before I check anything else. I figure that's just what I do now.
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The hours keep growing: A study published in Science Advances in April 2026 found that annual potential burning hours for wildfires in North America rose 36% between 1975 and 2024, driven by climate-weakened day-night weather constraints that used to help contain fires.
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Smoke and cancer risk: Research reported in April 2026 found that people exposed to higher levels of wildfire smoke over the previous three years were at increased risk of lung, colorectal, breast, bladder, and blood cancers, extending the known health burden well beyond respiratory effects.
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The cost per ton: A PNAS study estimated that under 3°C of warming, smoke exposure would cause 64,000 deaths annually in the United States, adding $11.20 in mortality damage per ton of CO₂ emitted — increasing the social cost of carbon by 74%.
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What burned buildings add: University of Arizona researchers noted that smoke from wildfires burning through the wildland-urban interface, which often burns structures and emits toxic organic compounds not present in vegetation-only fires, carries a different and less-studied chemical profile into the homes downwind.