A pecan tree had struck the back roof, but the laundry-room wall held. Keisha checked my ankle while I checked her hands for glass. We could not reach Mr. Baptiste. The emergency channel warned everyone to remain sheltered until the eye passed. During the strange quiet, we moved away from the damaged side, collected water, and covered the broken kitchen window with a table turned on its edge. The second half of the storm arrived before we finished.

Near midnight, my phone received a cluster of delayed messages. Aaron wrote that they had reached a hotel inland and asked whether the van arrived. Celia's earlier message to him appeared in the family thread by mistake: Your mother will refuse to leave if we make a fuss. The county can handle her. Aaron replied, I thought you booked it. The timestamp was twenty minutes before they drove away.

I took clear screenshots for the record and placed the phone face down. Keisha saw my expression but did not ask me to explain. She began humming one of the warm-up patterns I had taught at the community choir years earlier. I joined her, not because singing could quiet the storm, but because matching breath kept panic from scattering us. We wrote the pattern in the binder margin beside Mr. Baptiste's instructions.

At dawn, the wind weakened to hard rain. We stepped onto the front porch and saw branches, shingles, and a refrigerator lying in the road. Mr. Baptiste emerged from his workshop waving both arms; his radio battery had died. Marisol reached us on a satellite text relay and confirmed responders were coming. Aaron's car appeared before they did. He jumped out calling my name. Celia stayed in the passenger seat. Aaron reached for me, and I held up my phone instead.