By the time Beryl’s eye crawls over the shoreline, the true decision was made hours before: not in the height of the wind, but in the quiet moment when someone chose to move, or chose to wait. In shelter gyms, strangers become temporary families, sharing chargers, blankets, and stories of what they left on kitchen tables and bedroom walls. The loss is real, but so is the fragile relief of having simply made it out.
In the darkened neighborhoods left behind, every creak of the house sounds like a verdict. Those who stayed are not reckless; many are trapped by thin wallets, sick relatives, or jobs they can’t abandon. As water inches higher, they learn the cruel difference between “couldn’t” and “didn’t.” When the sun finally returns, the line between victims and survivors will be traced back to one overlooked skill: the courage to act before certainty arrives.
