Aaron read the messages under the broken porch awning that morning. He said he had believed Celia made the reservation. I asked why he left without seeing it. He looked toward the car and said the traffic alerts were frightening, the dog was panicking, and everything happened quickly. I told him the hurricane developed quickly; the habit of making me someone else's responsibility had developed for months.

Celia came onto the porch and accused me of judging one mistake made under pressure. Keisha quietly walked to Mr. Baptiste's workshop, giving us privacy without leaving me isolated. I asked Celia why she wrote that I would refuse to leave. She said I often minimized danger and she assumed the county had services for people like me. I reminded her I had asked for the reservation. She had turned a direct question into a character flaw.

The responders arrived before the argument ended. They assessed the roof, marked the kitchen unsafe, and helped us retrieve essentials. Because I owned the house, the insurance adjuster needed my authorization. Celia tried to answer his questions until I asked her to stop. I chose temporary housing at Marisol's sister's vacant apartment rather than the hotel where Aaron and Celia were staying. I also asked the adjuster to communicate only with me.

Before leaving, I placed three folders on the dining table beneath a plastic cover. One held the deed and insurance policy. One held the occupancy agreement Aaron and Celia had never signed. The third held my revised emergency contacts, with Keisha and Marisol above my son. I photographed the folders in place. Through the open wall, morning light reached the choir binder on the counter. Its damp pages had curled around a new line I did not remember writing: Staying is also a choice.