Page 28 of No Judgements

Wind Gust:35 MPH

Precipitation:0.6 in.

Emergency Disaster Survival Kit Basics—Home

Gasoline

Propane

Coolers

Gloves

Garbage bags

Battery-charged radio

Batteries

Flashlights

Tools such as utility knife, machete, power drill, chain saw

By dawn the next morning, the wind had picked up noticeably. It was still warm—it was always warmon Little Bridge Island—but the bamboo that Lydia had planted outside our bedroom windows for privacy was beginning to beat against the shutters, as rhythmically as drums.

When I stepped out to get the paper—Daniella insisted on getting home delivery ofThe Gazette, Little Bridge’s local paper, and I never complained, because every morning over my coffee I liked reading about which of my customers at the café had been busted for DUI—I could see that some of the pink and white blossoms on the frangipani had been sent skittering across the courtyard, piling up against our front door, where they lay like inert ballerinas, their tutus deflated.

The mockingbird was still on his usual perch in the treetop, however, singing his heart out, hoping to attract a mate. So things couldn’t be that bad.

The staff of the newspaper had decided to go for a less than subtle approach with their morning headline: “GET OUT!” screamed the front page, with a photo of motorists lined up along the highway out of Little Bridge.

The morning news shows weren’t any less emphatic. Basically, anyone in the path of Marilyn was still on a road to their demise. There was little to no news from Cuba, over which the slow-moving storm had just passed. All power and communication from there had been lost. The eye of the storm would soon be chugging its way across the Florida Straits on a direct course for the U.S.

We were, as my mother had assured me, all going to die.

I let Gary out to perform his morning ablutions (theyincluded chewing on the few blades of grass that grew beneath the frangipani, and then rolling in the dirt), then let him back inside, gave him his antibiotics for his now toothless gums, fed him, and headed out to the café. I took my bike instead of the scooter since I still wanted to save on gas, and also because they’d said on the news that there would be rain bands on and off all day.

As I pedaled across the quiet, sleepy town, I marveled once again at how many homes had been boarded up, seemingly overnight. I didn’t spot a single one with bare glass showing.

Until I got to the café, that is. There, the boarding process was only just under way. And the person in charge of it was someone I recognized only too well. Someone who wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“Hi,” Drew Hartwell said in a flat voice as I hopped off my bike.

“It’s good to see you, too.”

I pushed down my kickstand with my heel and snaked my lock between my bike frame and the rack, keeping my back toward him. His truck, I noted, was the only vehicle in the parking lot this early. Not even Ed was at work yet.

Drew didn’t reply, merely lifted his drill and sent another bit through the metal grid that secured the shutters he was using to cover the café’s large windows.

“How’s Socks?” I asked, still keeping my gaze pointedly averted from his shirtless chest.

“You mean Bob.”

Now I had to glance at him, because I was confused. “No. I mean Rick’s dog, Socks.”

“He’s my dog now,” Drew said, “and I’ve renamed him Bob. He went through a really bad time, but he’s got a new life now, so I figured he should have a new name to go along with it.”

I was a little startled by this, more by how similar it felt to my own life than anything else. I’d dyed my hair pink and started calling myself Bree, not Sabrina, to represent my new life in Little Bridge... or at least, my new life in Little Bridge for now.