A fire marshal stopped by at 8:30 and said to Bruce, “You’re only four feet above sea level so you can expect some flooding.” The harbor was six blocks to the west, the beach a mile to the east.

“You know there’s a mandatory evacuation order,” he said.

“I’m not leaving,” Bruce said.

The fire marshal took his name, phone number, and Noelle’s contact information, then hurried to the store next door. At 9:00, Bruce gathered his employees and told them to grab their valuables and leave the island. Everyone vanished, except for Nick Sutton, who seemed to relish the idea of riding out a major hurricane. He was adamant in his refusal to evacuate.

The shelves of Bruce’s office on the first floor were lined with valuable first editions. Bruce told Nick to continue to box them and deliver them to his home four blocks away. Bruce left and drove to the home of Myra and Leigh, who were frantically throwing clothes and dogs into their old station wagon.

“Where should we go, Bruce?” Myra asked, soaked with sweat and visibly frightened.

“Get on Interstate 10 and head toward Pensacola. I’ll check on the house after the storm.”

“You’re not leaving?” Leigh asked.

“No, I can’t. I’m going to watch the store and check on things. I’ll be fine.”

“Then we’re staying too,” Myra said without conviction.

“No, you’re not. It could be ugly—lots of trees down, some flooding, no power for days. Y’all get out of here and find a hotel room somewhere. I’ll call as soon as the phones start working again.”

“You’re not worried?” Leigh asked.

“Of course I’m worried. But I’ll be okay.” He helped them load all the bottled water in the house, a box of liquor, three sacks of food, and ten pounds of dog food. He practically shoved them into the car and waved them goodbye. Both were in tears as they began their escape.

He called Amy, who was already on the road and over the bridge. Her husband had an aunt in Macon, Georgia, and that would be their first stop. Bruce promised to check on their home after the storm and call. He tried to drive to the beach but the police were blocking all eastbound traffic. Mercer was not answering her phone.

10.

Tessa had built the beach cottage thirty years earlier. As a child, Mercer had spent her summers there, far away from her warring parents. Larry had always been around to tend to the cottage, and bicker with Tessa about the gardening, and bring fruits and vegetables from his garden. He was a native of the island and would never leave, not even for a threat like Leo.

He arrived early that morning with eight sheets of used plywood, drills, and hammers, and he and Thomas boarded the windows and doors as Mercer hurriedly packed the car. Larry was adamant that they leave as soon as possible. The ground floor of the cottage was eighteen feet above sea level and there were two hundred feet of dunes for protection. He was confident the surge wouldn’t reach the cottage but was worried about the wind.

Tessa had died in a storm, and Mercer wasn’t about to stay behind. At 11:00, she hugged Larry goodbye and left with Thomas at the wheel, his yellow Labrador perched between them on the console. It took an hour to get to the bridge, and as they inched across it and looked down at the choppy and forbidding waters of the Camino River, the sky darkened and the rains began.

11.

With his rare books secured in a new walk-in vault next to his bedroom, Bruce tried to relax. If that could be possible. The storm hysteria on cable was impossible to ignore and it was frightening to watch Leo tighten his eye in real time and keep it locked on the island. Bruce and Nick Sutton ate sandwiches on the veranda and watched it rain. The housekeeper had been frightened away and had already called from Tallahassee.

Bruce’s collection was worth far more than the inventory at his store, or the art on his walls, or the pricey antiques Noelle peddled to her high-end clientele. With his prized editions secured, a chunk of his net worth was safe from any catastrophe—fire, flood, wind, theft. The biggest chunk was buried offshore and no one but Noelle knew about it.

Bay Books was closed and locked tight, as were all downtown stores, restaurants, and coffee shops. No one was interested in shopping or dining out. Main Street was deserted except for the police in yellow rain gear. There was little crime on the island during a normal day. Potential looters lived elsewhere. The biggest fears were rising waters and glass breakage.

Four blocks away, where the stately Victorians had been on display for a century, the fear was falling trees. Some of the oaks had been around for three hundred years, and every house was shaded by thick limbs draped with Spanish moss. The trees were stately, historic, a source of great pride, but in a few hours they would become dangerous.

As Nick returned to the table with a Heineken, Bruce poured another glass of white wine and looked at his checklist. He said, “It might be a good idea if you stay here for the fun. I have no experience with hurricanes but it seems as though the buddy system will be safer. Wind, water, falling limbs, no power—it’ll be better to have two of us.”

Nick nodded but wasn’t convinced. “How much food do you have?”

“For two people, enough for a week. I have a small generator that will run the basics for a few days. I’ll fill the cans with gas. Are you on your bike?”