Yep. Not long after my mom kicked my dad out of the house, the place we were living “mysteriously” caught fire. So there I am, 4 years old, being carried down the back stairs of a third-floor walk-up at 2am in the middle of winter. There was also a close call when my stepfather’s motorcycle blew a fuel line, dumped gas all over the hot exhaust pipe, and went up right next to the bush out front. No 911 then, but we managed to soak things down well enough to keep it from spreading and catching the house. I’m not counting the controlled blaze every sailor fights during Boot Camp.
The scary part isn’t the fire. If you have even a little common sense, you already know where the exit is, and probably multiple exits. The scary part is what the fire leaves behind, and the after-action realization of having a brush with your own mortality. At the time, all you’re thinking about is survival. Afterwards, then you worry about where to live, or imagine what could’ve happened, but that comes later. Fire itself isn’t scary.