"The water," I say. "The Gulf coming in."
"Right. But it's more than that. It's not like a wave. It's the entire Gulf of Mexico rising up and walking onto land. The whole Gulf just lifts up and pushes inland, and it doesn't stop until the storm tells it to stop. Once that water starts surging, it can go and go. They're projecting twelve to sixteen feet of surge for this area. That means the water could be sixteen feet higher than normal when Peter comes ashore. My bar sits about eight feet above sea level. You can do that math."
I can easily do the math. The math says the first floor drowns.
"Now, before you panic, let me remind you that this building is basically a bunker with a liquor license. She's not going anywhere. During Michael, the surge came up to about four feet inside this building on the ground level. We lost the pool tables. Lost everything that wasn't bolted down and some things that were. The building held, but everything inside it on the first floor was gone. That's why we've been moving stuff upstairs. If the surge is as bad as they're saying, the first floor is going to flood. Maybe the second floor too, if we're unlucky."
He says this the way he says everything. Steady, matter-of-fact, no panic. Like he's reading a weather report and not describing the possible destruction of everything he owns.
"Here's the part I need you to hear," he says, and his voice gets a little quieter. Not scared. Serious. "There's always a chance, in a storm this strong, that the surge could be bad enough to knock a building completely off its foundation. It happens. You see it in the news after every big hurricane. Buildings that were standing one day, floating the next. The whole structure just lifts and goes. I don't think that's going to happen here because this building survived Michael and the foundation is solid. But I'd be lying if I said the chance was zero."
I stop eating. The bacon doesn't taste good anymore.
"If that happens, if this building starts to move, we go up. Third floor, then the roof if we have to. We stay with the structure as long as it's floating because it's better than being in the water. All kinds of shit will be in that water and none of it good. Trust me, we don't want to be in the water." He looks at me across the counter. "Can you swim?"
"Yes."
"How strong of a swimmer are you? And I need an honest answer, not a brave one."
I think about it. I can swim, though not well. Only a few times in a pool. I've never swum in anything that was trying to kill me.
"I can swim," I say. "I'm not a strong swimmer."
He nods. No judgment. Just taking in information.
"Okay. That's good to know. Hopefully it won't matter because we'll be sitting up there on the third floor playing cards and listening to Peter throw his tantrum and then it'll beover. But if it does matter, you stay with me. You understand? Whatever happens, you stay with me. You stick close and don't go off by yourself. Trust whatever I tell you to do. I grew up on this beach. I've been swimming in the Gulf since before I could walk. I'm not going to let anything happen to you as long as you're beside me."
He says it simply. Like it's obvious. Like of course he's going to keep me safe, like that's just what he does, like the idea of not doing it hasn't occurred to him.
I don't know what to say so I pick up my fork and eat my eggs.
We spend the morning on final preparations. The wind is getting worse by the hour. The storm bands that were rolling through yesterday in bursts have merged into one continuous assault, rain driving sideways and never letting up. Every time we open a door to check the exterior, the wind nearly rips it off the hinges.
Tex fills every container in the bar with water. Pots, pitchers, the big stock pots from the kitchen, even the mop bucket. "When the power goes, the pumps go," he says, lining them up on the second-floor landing. "No pumps, no running water. We'll want water for drinking and for flushing toilets. It's not glamorous but it's practical."
I help without being asked. I carry containers up the stairs, two at a time, sloshing water on my shoes. I tape the seams around the boarded windows with duct tape the way he shows me. I help him drag the big cooler from the walk-in up to the second floor, packed with everything from the fridge that we might need over the next two days. My arms burn and my back aches and I don't care. I have a job. I have a purpose. Every trip up the stairs is one more thing I've done to earn my place here, and I need that the way I need air.
Around noon, Tex's phone buzzes with another alert. He reads it and his jaw tightens, just for a second, before he smooths it out.
"What?" I ask.
"Peter's been upgraded. Category 5. Sustained winds of 160 miles per hour." He puts the phone in his pocket. "Surge projection just went up to eighteen feet."
Eighteen feet.
The first floor is eight feet above sea level. Eighteen minus eight means ten feet of water inside the ground level. The second floor is maybe twelve feet above the first.
"We'll be fine," Tex says. "This building held through Michael and Michael was a Category 5. Same building, same foundation, same stubborn owner refusing to leave." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Besides, I've already signed Mickey's form. Can't evacuate now. It's too late."
"That's not how that works."
"Don't ruin this for me, Stormy. I'm trying to be heroic. I'm not leaving, but you can. It's not too late. Do you want me to take you somewhere else? A shelter? Or maybe even Mickey's? I'm sure he'd let you stay with him. You'd be safer there."
"No!" The word comes out before I even think about it. "I don't want to leave."
Please don't make me leave.
I hold my breath until he smiles back at me. "I appreciate it. I don't know what I would have done without your help getting ready."
