Hurricane Ian was bearing down on us. There’d been evacuation notices in nearby counties but none for Fort Myers Beach. I was packed and ready to leave. In college I was the type of student who started papers the day they were assigned. My husband, Jack, wanted to stay and ride it out.
We were sitting on our deck, looking at the calm water. Jack was on his third rum margarita and I was sipping on a Diet Coke. “You know,” I said, “no matter how tight you get the moorings, our boat’s going to end up in a tree ten miles from here. And you’re going to end up—” I picked at my cuticle until it bled.
“No worries,” Jack said. “Ian is headed for Tampa Bay. We might luck out and get some of that rain and wind.”
I’d gone looking for my expired Zoloft pills but couldn’t find them.
