But the giant trucks keep rolling, more and more every day. So you slip your little sedan into their wake like the humblest of pilot fish, happy to suck their exhaust pipes in exchange for protection. Windshield wipers flap away the snow until you eject at your hotel, which has a parking lot filled with slush and snow but a tropical jungle in the lobby with a stream that curves around the chairs. The stream is stocked with ornamental carp, golden advertisements for the good life, every last one imported from a soft and temperate place very far away. Are they grace notes in a harsh frontier or a sign of the impending apocalypse? You must choose one. You cannot choose both. This is the challenge of Fort McMurray, the secret engine of the modern world. Can it be fixed? Must it be stopped? Can it be stopped?