The smell of smoke surrounds me as I step outside, and in that instant, I am in Beijing again, sitting behind my mom on her squeaky blue bicycle as we maneuver our way through the crowded streets. Laughing pedestrians and screaming hawkers. Looming high-rises. Heavy gray skies. Discarded bits of paper fluttering like birds in the bitter wind. Clinging tightly to my mom, I take in the familiar, smog-ridden scene. Despite the noise, despite the foul air, I feel safe. Now, eight years later and an ocean away, smoke finds me again in the US Pacific Northwest. It’s the season of fires, and thick forests burn on a hazy red horizon. But mercifully, the smell of smoke carries me back to my carefree childhood, to the time I felt no fear.