The number now belonged to Marisol Vega, a teacher who coordinated our block's emergency team. She answered despite the failing signal. Her volunteers had evacuated that morning, but she knew one neighbor still nearby: Mr. Baptiste, a retired electrician sheltering in his reinforced workshop. He could not drive in the wind. Marisol stayed on the line while I checked shutters, filled the bathtub, and moved my medication into a waterproof tin.

Mr. Baptiste called next. He told me how to switch off the porch circuit if water reached the outdoor outlets and where to shelter if the living-room windows failed. His voice was slow enough to follow. I wrote each instruction in the blank spaces of the choir binder, beside notes about tempo and breath. Preparing did not make me safe, but it changed me from abandoned cargo into a person making decisions.

At four, someone pounded on the side door. I looked through the peephole and saw Keisha, a nursing assistant from two houses down, soaked beneath a bicycle helmet. Her ride to the shelter had stalled, and she had walked back after a tree blocked the street. I opened the door only long enough to pull her inside. We chose the central laundry room, brought cushions from the sofa, and wedged a folding table above us.

The power failed before sunset. Keisha and I took turns reading the wind reports from a battery radio. When the pressure dropped, the house seemed to inhale. A window shattered somewhere toward the kitchen. Water crawled beneath the laundry-room door. I thought about Aaron on the inland highway and wanted him safe even while anger pressed against my ribs. Then a heavy impact shook the wall behind us. Dust fell from the ceiling, and Mr. Baptiste's voice vanished from the radio channel.