Lakeside Apartments were already drowning. Hurricane Irene just held it under a minute to finish the job.
The drama played out in muffled sounds across the smooth black parking lot of the motel. Knocking first. Insistent. Hollow. Without echo.
“There’s a walking stick in there. … Or it could be just a stick stick. Look at it.”
Knoebels—85 and counting—is as spry as amusement parks half her age, but with ten times the class.
The text, sent from the office near the end of my shift, was shorthand for “Let’s run away for a few hours. This reality sucks donkey balls.” Or something along those lines. She understood.
My fingers lighted on a small leather billfold. It was structurally sound, the plastic envelopes for displaying photos just barely yellowed. And it was empty, except …