Ashes to Shelter
Inspired by real opportunity.
Pacific Palisades used to sparkle. Now it’s all ash and silence. The skeletal remains of upscale homes and mansions loom against a slate-gray sky, stripped of their wealth by fire, their opulence reduced to rubble. The ground crunches beneath my feet, brittle and charred, breaking apart as if the earth itself has given up. My shoes are caked in soot, and the acrid scent of melted plastic and scorched luxury clings to the air. Each breath carries the metallic tang of ash, a bitter reminder of what’s been lost.
This is what happens when greed meets nature. This is what happens when a city builds its house out of gold and lets the ground beneath it burn.
I stop in front of the blackened remains of a sprawling estate. A tennis court, half melted into the earth, stretches out to my right. To the left, the jagged shell of a pool glistens with rainwater and debris. Somewhere deep inside me, a voice whispers that it’s hopeless—that this land will never be anything but ruins. But louder than that is another voice. A stronger voice.
“We can turn this into housing,” I say, mostly to myself, my voice muffled by the mask I wear to shield my lungs from the lingering ash—“a lot of housing!”
A snort breaks the silence. I glance at my fellow city councilman, Jonas Callahan, standing a few feet away. He’s dressed in an expensive overcoat, the kind that looks wrong in a place like this, where the only people left are firefighters and displaced residents. Somehow, his feet don’t have a single speck of ash on them. The gleam of his polished shoes feels obscene in this place.
“This is Pacific Palisades, Juanita,” he says, smirking. His voice is as smooth as his polished shoes. “Do you really think anyone will let you put high-density housing here? On this land?”
I meet his eyes, refusing to flinch. “Most of the residents aren’t coming back, Jonas. They are used to a certain level of opulence and convenience. It’s going go take years to bring it back. Rich people have options. They’re not gonna’ wait that long.”
“But you’re forgetting something, Councilwoman Reyes,” he replies, as if invoking my title will change my position on the matter. A glint of something dangerous flashes in his smile. “Those same rich people still own the land. And they’re not going to sell it cheap. They may not stay here themselves, but they’ll rebuild and then they’ll make a mint selling it to the next batch of up and coming entertainers with too much money and not enough sense.”
I feel my jaw tighten, my teeth grinding behind the mask. “I think you’ve underestimated the powers of eminent domain, Jonas.”
Jonas laughs aloud as if I have just said the most bizarrely funny thing he’s ever heard. “That’s just not how any of this works,” he says. “Eminent domain doesn’t apply to rich people. Have you forgotten you’re a politician?” he asks incredulously.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
He sighs. “You Democrats are all the same,” he says. “You all act like you can run whole campaigns on the backs of tiny donors sending you five and ten dollars at a time. But behind the scenes—you and I both know who’s pulling all of our strings.”
He pauses as if expecting me to reply. I don’t.
“Rich people!” he says at last as if exasperated with me for not grasping it. “Fucking rich people with enough money to fund any pissing contest they want.”
I grasp it. I just don’t care.
He continues. “—Rich people with warring ideologies pulling out their wallets to see who can fund their own best version of utopia. It’s never been any different and it’s never gonna’ change,” he says flatly.
I look at him and try to still the anger rising within me. “I don’t care,” I say at last. “The only reason this land was what it was is that the rich people got to it first and decided it was the best. Well guess what, Jonas? Housing prices and rents are too high in this city and there’s nowhere left to spread to. Meanwhile we have an amazing opportunity here to do better and I’m not just gonna’ let this moment pass me by without a fight.”
“Okay,” he says, condescension, thick in his voice. “Let’s say you do somehow manage to get enough members of the city council to commit career suicide alongside of you and you get ahold of all this land. Then what?”
“Then, taking away for things like land allotments for schools, churches, green space, shopping centers, gas stations, and the like, we still have room for high density housing—enough space for 200,000 homes conservatively and 275,000 if we pack them in tightly.”
Jonas is silent for a moment as if thinking it through. He starts to shake his head.
I continue. “I’ll gladly lose the votes of 23,000 displaced by fire and eminent domain to gain the votes of the 750,000 new residents whose homes will be newer, cheaper, and more accessible,” I say. “We have an opportunity here, Jonas. Can’t you see that?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Warring rich people, Juanita,” he says again. “We’re all just pawns in their game.”
He’s got a point. I know it. But I also know I’m right. “Well sometimes a person has to choose which hill to die on,” I say.
He shrugs. “Your funeral,” he says. “I’m sure some law firm will be more than happy to hire you when a Republican with some sense in their head takes your seat.”
“I’m keeping my seat,” I say with resolve. I gesture around the burnt out neighborhood. “And I’m taking this land too,” I say. “The people of Los Angeles have need of it.”
“For crying out loud,” Jonas says. “Juanita, I consider you a friend, and despite our political differences, you know I’ve always respected you….”
“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” I say.
“But for the love of God, councilwoman,” he replies. “You’ve got to be more realistic.”
“Be more realistic.” The words hit me harder than I expect. They remind me of every time someone told me I was dreaming too big, reaching too high, trying too hard to fix something that was too far gone. I take a breath, letting the anger settle into something colder, sharper.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice low and even. “We’re all bought and paid for by rich people.” I pause. “But that’s not good enough this time. This time we’re all just gonna’ have to do better!”
I don’t wait for his response. I turn and walk away, the brittle ground cracking beneath my steps.
3 Months Later: City Hall
City Hall is chaos by the time I arrive. The chamber is packed—people crammed shoulder to shoulder, spilling into the aisles and crowding the back wall. The air hums with tension, anger, desperation. Reporters line the rear of the room, their cameras pointed at the dais like vultures circling a kill.
I push through the throng, feeling the weight of a thousand stares. Some are hopeful. Most are skeptical. A cough builds in my chest, sharp and dry, but I swallow it down. The mask I wore earlier is stuffed in my bag, useless now in this stifling crowd.
I take my seat at the dais, smoothing the front of my blazer. My proposal sits in front of me, buried in the thick stack of documents on my desk. I’ve spent the last three months pitching my plan to what feels like too many deaf ears to colleagues and constituents and celebrity victims alike. I look down at my cover sheet:
Land Allocation
Out of 23,713 acres, a balanced urban planning approach might allocate:
Residential housing: 60% (~14,227 acres)
Schools: 10% (~2,371 acres)
Shopping centers, restaurants, and offices: 15% (~3,557 acres)
Gas stations and grocery stores: 5% (~1,186 acres)
Parks and green spaces: 10% (~2,371 acres)
Residential Housing Density
For low- to mid-income housing:
Low-density development: 6 homes per acre (detached single-family homes)
Mid-density development: 20 homes per acre (townhouses or small apartments)
High-density development: 40 homes per acre (mid-rise apartments)
Scenario Calculation
Assuming a mix of low, mid, and high-density developments:
40% low-density (6 homes/acre):
40% of 14,227 acres = 5,691 acres × 6 homes = 34,146 homes
40% mid-density (20 homes/acre):
40% of 14,227 acres = 5,691 acres × 20 homes = 113,820 homes
20% high-density (40 homes/acre):
20% of 14,227 acres = 2,845 acres × 40 homes = 113,800 homes
Total homes = 34,146 + 113,820 + 113,800 = 261,766 homes
Final Estimate:
With a mixed-density approach and room for schools, shopping centers, and other amenities, approximately 260,000 homes could be built on the available 23,713 acres. This estimate ensures a balanced community with space for education, commerce, and recreation.
My thoughts are interrupted by the bang of the gavel, bringing the council to order.
“Councilmember Reyes,” Mayor Lyle calls from the center of the dais. His voice is steady, but there’s a hint of condescension beneath the neutrality. “You have the floor.”
I stand, gripping the edges of the podium as I take a deep breath. My heart is pounding, but I force my voice to stay steady.
“Thank you, Mayor. Ladies and gentlemen, we are at a crossroads.” My voice carries across the room, silencing the murmurs. “The fires devastated our city. Entire neighborhoods are gone. Homes, businesses, lives—reduced to ash. But out of this tragedy comes an opportunity. A chance to rebuild, not just our homes, but our priorities.
“We have the chance to create something better. To address the housing crisis that has pushed thousands of Angelenos out of the city they call home. This isn’t just about land; it’s about equity. Dignity. Community.
I hold up my cover sheet. My assistant passes out copies to each of them.
I continue. “This plan isn’t about erasing our legacy. It’s about creating a future where everyone—workers, families, even those who’ve been displaced—can come back. We owe it to the people who built this city, who’ve been left behind for too long.”
The murmurs start again, louder this time. I keep talking, raising my voice over the noise.
“We have a choice: rebuild the city the way it was, or rebuild it into something stronger, fairer, and more just. I believe we can choose the latter.”
Public Comments
The public comments are brutal.
The first speaker is an elderly Black woman with a cane, her hands trembling as she grips the podium. “I worked as a housekeeper in Pacific Pallisades for thirty years,” she says, her voice cracking. “The fire took everything I had. I can’t afford to come back unless you build that housing. Please.”
Her words hang in the air, raw and unvarnished.
Then comes a middle-aged man in a tailored suit. “This plan is an insult to the legacy of Pacific Pallisades,” he says, glaring at me. “Turning it into a slum is an outrage. Over my dead body.”
The arguments go back and forth, each one like a hammer blow. By the time the meeting ends, I feel like I’ve been stripped down to nothing.
Later, at home, I sit on my couch, staring at my laptop. My inbox is flooded with emails. Some are supportive. Most are not.
One subject line catches my eye: You should burn too.
I hesitate, then click it. The message is short. “You’re a disgrace to this city. Stay in East LA where you belong.”
My hands shake as I close the laptop. The sharp pain in my chest flares, my lungs heavy from a long day in the polluted air. I press my palms into my eyes, trying to block out the noise in my head. My parents’ faces flash behind my eyelids—my dad loading crates onto trucks, my mom scrubbing floors for people like Jonas Callahan. All their sacrifices so I could stand in that chamber today.
I can’t let them down.
The Final Vote
The final vote comes two weeks later. The chamber is packed, every inch of it brimming with bodies, tension, and unspoken stakes. The hum of whispered conversations is electric, the air thick with anticipation. Cameras flash, reporters scramble for the best angle, and somewhere in the crowd, I hear someone mutter my name.
Mayor Lyle taps his mic, silencing the room with a metallic echo. “The motion on the floor is Councilmember Reyes’ proposal for the redevelopment of District 5. We will proceed with the roll call.”
My heart feels like it might burst from my chest. I glance at the crowd. There are faces I recognize—some hopeful, some furious. The elderly woman who spoke at the last meeting is sitting near the front, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Behind her is the angry gentleman from that same day, arms crossed, his face a mask of practiced indifference.
The first vote comes in: “No.”
My stomach tightens.
“Yes.”
The next few votes blur together. “Yes.” “No.” “Yes.” It’s even now, tied. The fate of my dream is in the hands of Jonas Callahan. A knot builds in my stomach. For months I have been fighting with him, getting nowhere. Late nights. Long lunches. Emails back and forth. But he keeps coming back to the same points: “Rich people own the land and if we take it from them, we’ll be removed by force from our seats of power and made to pay politically for trying to take over their culture war. Be reasonable, Juanita.”
The air in the room seems to disappear as if we’ve all been sucked into a vacuum. Everyone including me is sure we know what he’s about to say. I brace, expecting to likely be forced to resign shortly after he registers his vote.
We lock eyes. I shake my head as if to beg: “Please.”
He winks at me and leans into his mic, “You’re home,” councilwoman,” he says, his voice slow and deliberate. “I vote yes.”
The room erupts. Cheers, boos, applause, shouting—it all collides in a single deafening wave. I sit frozen, my hands gripping the edge of the dais, my breath caught in my throat.
“The motion passes,” the Mayor announces, “five to four.”
For a moment, I can’t move. The chaos in the room feels distant, like I’m watching it through a fog. My chest feels heavy—not just from the tension, but from the fire-scarred air that has left its permanent mark on my lungs. It isn’t until I feel a hand on my shoulder that I snap back to the present.
I look up to see Jonas standing over me, his expression unreadable. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice barely audible over the noise.
He can see in my face that I am in a state of shock. He shrugs and grins. “You, know; I was probably right,” he says. “Next election, we’re probably both getting shit canned.”
Words seem complicated right now. but I finally navigate my way toward them and choke out, “Then why?”
He smiles and he leans over and kisses the top of my forehead. It’s not condescending. It’s not romantic. It’s the purity of a friendship formed in fire. As he steps away, he says, “Because you were right too. I guess, this time, we’re all just gonna have to do better.”
“This is not gonna be easy,” I say finally.
Jonas nods, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. “Yeah,” he says. “But the light is green right now.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, the weight of the past few weeks lifting slightly. I know the battles aren’t over—the lawsuits, the protests, the threats—but tonight, I’ll let myself believe in the future we’re building.