“Okay, everyone! This is not a drill! We need to mobilize. Can some of you come over to Knit Happens to help me? We’ve got to get everything off the floor in case of flooding. Also, Noah needs help at Rye Again. He’s got perishable goods and equipment that need to be secured.”
More messages roll in with our friends offering to go help at one place or the other.
I stare at the messages, a wave of resignation washing over me. So much for my blissful day of romantic contemplation. The image of Zachary—his smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, our kiss on the dunes—tries toresurface, but it’s quickly drowned out by the impending chaos. Stay in bed? Not an option. Not with a hurricane barreling down on us, and my friends needing help. I sigh, pulling on the first comfortable clothes I can find. Duty calls, even if my heart yearns for a different kind of morning.
The wind is already a snarling beast, whipping my hair across my face as I wrestle with a heavy sandbag. Beside me, Flick grunts, her usually cheerful face strained with effort, and Sebastian, surprisingly strong despite his lanky frame, heaves another bag into place. We’re installing makeshift flood barriers to the storefront of Knit Happens, Hannah’s yarn shop, and the air is thick with the metallic tang of impending rain and the frantic energy of a town bracing for the worst. An hour ago, I was still contemplating a day of blissful idleness; now, I’m battling a hurricane that wasn't supposed to be here.
Inside, through the large display window, I can see Hannah and Michael, a blur of motion as they reorganize the stock. They’re moving all the precious yarn, skein by colorful skein, into large plastic storage boxes. These boxes are then hoisted into the loft space above the ceiling, a precarious operation involving a rickety ladder and a lot of grunting.
The whole street is a chaotic symphony of activity. Store owners up and down the block are doing the same thing we are: boarding up windows, piling sandbags, and shouting instructions. Every few minutes, someone runs by, their face streaked with sweat and urgency, shouting about some other necessity the grocery store has just run out of—batteries, bottled water, canned goods.
A cold dread washes over me. My cabinets. They’re almost totally bare. I’d planned to go shopping later today, a leisurely trip to stock up on non-perishables, fresh produce, and pantry staples. But by the time we finish here at Hannah’s, and then I stop by the school to help them secure things, the shelves at the only grocery store on the island will probably be empty. The thought of being stuck without even a decent cup of coffee tomorrow morning sends a shiver down my spine, colder than the wind biting at my exposed skin. I push the thought away, focusing on the heavy weight of the sandbag in my arms.
One thing at a time, Maya. One thing at a time.
We finally finish at Knit Happens, the storefront looking like a fortified bunker. “I’m heading to the school,” I shout over the rising howl of the wind to Flick and Sebastian, who are already moving on to help the next shop owner. They nod, grim-faced.
The drive to the school is a slow crawl because of the increasingly blurred vision through my windshield. The sky is an ominous, angry purple, and the wind is pushing my car around like a toy. When I pull into the school parking lot, it’s already teeming with cars. As soon as I step inside, I see teachers and staff moving with a frantic purpose, securing windows, moving electronics, and preparing the gym as an emergency shelter. I jump in, joining a group trying to secure the large, rattling double doors of the school’s main entrance.
Just as we finish, tightening the last bolt on the emergency latch, the skies open. It’s not rain; it’s a solid wall of water, a downpour so immense and sudden that the world outside vanishes behind a shimmering, opaque curtain. The sheets of rain are so thick I can barely see further than a foot outside of the doors. I’m about to stumble out into the parking lot blindly, desperate to get back to my car and maybe, just maybe, make a dash for the grocery store, when our Vice Principal, Mrs. Brock, clamps a firm hand down on my arm.
“Maya! No! The roads are already too dangerous,” she shouts over the roar of the storm, her hand still on my arm to keep me inside the relative shelter of the school foyer. Her face is pale but resolute. “We’re on lockdown. Everyone stays. The gym is set up. We’ll ride it out here.”
My heart sinks. Stay here? Overnight? Sleep in the gym? The thought of being trapped, away from my own apartment, my safe space, is a bitter pill to swallow. But there’s no arguing with Mrs. Brock, or with the sheer force of the hurricane outside. I watch as other teachers, their faces reflecting my own disbelief and exhaustion, walk toward the gym shaking their heads at the ferocity of the storm.
Two hours later, the power goes out. We heard on the small portable radio we found in the gym teacher’s office that the entire island is now without power. The emergency lights flicker on, casting long, eerie shadows down the deserted hallways. The gym, however, is a hive of activity, lit by battery-powered lanterns and the glow of phone screens. Sleeping bags are unfurled, air mattresses are inflated with manual pumps, and the low hum of nervous chatter fills the air. I crawl into my sleeping bag, the thin fabric offering little comfort against the hard gym floor.
But then, a small, furry miracle happens. While prepping the school earlier, moving some art supplies from the storage closet, I’d heard a faint scratching. I’d opened the door to a dark corner, expecting to see a mouse, but instead, I see a small lost ferret. I picked her up and she immediately curled her sleek, brown body into my arms, a warm, chattering ball of fur, and she hasn’t stopped cuddling me since.
I have no idea where she came from—a pet that escaped during the chaos? A wild one seeking shelter? Are there ferrets in the wild? I have no clue. Whatever her story, she’s mine now. I’ve grown so attached to her in these past few hours; thewarmth of her little furry body curled into mine is so comforting, a small anchor in this swirling chaos.
I pull out my phone, the screen a beacon in the dim gym. Miraculously, I still have a signal. I call Flick who, last I heard, was going with Sebastian back to his veterinary office for a final check-in.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, are you guys okay? I’m stuck at the school for the night.” I say.
She ignores my question. “Oh my gosh! I totally forgot to talk to you about this when I saw you earlier. Tell me everything about your night with the astronaut! Was he dreamy? Did he have a space suit?”
I chuckle softly, a rare moment of levity. I’d texted her when I was at the bar, while Zachary was in the bathroom, saying I’d met my most interesting one-night stand yet. That was back when I genuinely thought hewasa one-night stand. Now, it feels like a lifetime ago, a different world.
“Later, Flick,” I reply. “Right now, I need Sebastian. Can you pass the phone to him? I found a ferret and I want to keep her. Need advice on how to care for her.”
I hear a muffled conversation on the other end of the line and a moment later Sebastian’s voice, calm and practical comes through. “A ferret? Seriously, Maya? Okay, what do you have?”
I explain the situation, the lack of supplies, the makeshift nature of our current shelter. Sebastian, ever the resourceful one, walks me through how to make a spare cage using supplies I found in the art supply closet. I grab a large plastic box I was using to store oversized canvases in my room, turn it on its side, and line it with some old art smocks and blankets I found. It’s not ideal, but it’s warm and enclosed.
For food, I remember the jerky I had in my purse from a hike last week. It’s probably not ideal ferret food, but it’s protein. I break off tiny pieces, and Frida—yes, I’ve decided to name herFrida, after the artist, because she’s so curious and full of life—eats them delicately from my palm. For water, I find a small plastic cup and fill it from my water bottle. Then, the litter box. Sebastian suggests a shoebox. I rummage through a storage bin and find an empty one. For litter, I remember the sand from last year’s sand art project, still in a forgotten bag. It's coarse, but it'll do for now. I pour a shallow layer into the shoebox, and Frida, after a moment of sniffing, seems to understand.
It’s only after I’ve settled Frida, cozy in her little box burrow, and my head finally hits the makeshift pillow of my rolled-up jacket, that my mind drifts back to the evening I spent with Zachary. The banter, the shared laughter, the unexpected, breathtaking kiss on the dunes under a sky full of stars. It feels like a lifetime ago, a distant dream from a world that no longer exists, swallowed by the howling wind and the dark, uncertain night.
Chapter Five
Maya
The scent of sourdough and dark roast coffee wraps around me like a warm blanket the moment I push open the door to Rye Again. It’s a familiar comfort, a balm to the low hum of anxiety that’s been buzzing in my chest since the storm passed. The island is still drying out; as I drove over, I saw piles of debris on the curbs and a few downed fences, but the bridge from Portsmouth had finally reopened this morning.
Alexis waves from behind the counter, looking remarkably refreshed for someone who just survived a hurricane with a literal infant. Noah is near the back, overseeing a new staff member who is busy wiping down the tables. Now that the bakery has grown, Noah spends more time managing the kitchen than clearing crumbs, though he still keeps a sharp eye on every loaf that leaves the oven.
Flick is already settled at our usual corner table. In front of her is a thick slice of toasted sourdough and a steaming cup of coffee poured from the French press sitting on the table. She’s scrolling through her phone, probably looking at some new yarn dye inspiration.
