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throwing anything within reach into the trunk. But a manicure stand? What else had she packed? And what had she left behind? After grabbing her overnight bag, she hit the lock button on the remote and caught up to her talkative new friend.
    Judy had run out of breath and steam by the time her feet struck the protected sidewalk again. She set her bundles on the cement, lit another cigarette, brushed a handful of snarled hair behind one ear and fired questions. “Where’re you from, sugar? Hit any bad weather? You all by yourself?”
    Stephanie decided not to rehash the trip’s harrowing details, but there was no denying that she was alone.
    “Come on.” Judy’s words floated on white smoke. “I’ll show you the way.” Hoisting the stand and a cardboard box with a loud sigh, she dropped her third cigarette of the quarter hour into another smoker’s soda can. “Next year, we’ll demand ashtrays,” she said to a rail-thin man.
    “Promises, promises,” came a graveled response. “That’s what you said last year.”
    “Last year?” Stephanie felt her stomach drop. “People have to evacuate every year?”
    Judy’s barking laugh was half cough. “More like two or three times a month. But only in the summer, sug.”
    “And sometimes in the fall.” The thin man’s caveat earned a nod or two from those lingering on the walkway.
    Hurricanes did not hit Cocoa Beach. According to her Realtor, a direct strike was as unlikely as a meteor hitting Earth. But people evacuated… often?
    Stephanie rolled her neck to ease the tension. A headache brewed. A couple of aspirin and a few hours of peace and quiet were a sure cure, but noise rolled out of the school like a wave when Judy tugged on one of the doors. Stephanie cringed.
    So much for peace and quiet.
    Several hundred noisy evacuees filled the cafeteria. A raised stage dominated one side, where small groups played board games or cards at long tables. On the other, families had staked out sleeping areas the way miners staked their claims, marking personal space with piles of belongings packed in everything from American Tourister luggage to black garbage bags. Televisions blared from AV stands in the four corners, and children were everywhere. Some played or sat or quietly napped despite the din. Others contributed to it.
    Stephanie glanced over her shoulder, considering.Behind her, rain poured from the sky. A strengthening wind drove it halfway across the covered walkway. Thunder clapped on the heels of a bright flash, and she saw several of the smokers hurriedly drown cigarettes and move to the doors. Outside was not the place to be. Squaring her shoulders, she trailed the shelter worker down a haphazard aisle until they reached a bare patch of floor.
    “This is a good spot,” Judy declared. Before Stephanie had a chance to agree or disagree, her temporary home had been established. “Come on up front soon as you can. There’s some papers for you to fill out. Bathrooms are over there.” She pointed. “And the kitchen is behind the stage. Hungry?”
    Stephanie took stock. An aeon had passed since the morning’s bagel. In the car, hunger had gnawed at her. But the stale cafeteria air smelled of too many people, cleaning supplies and a million school lunches. “I could use some coffee,” she said.
    “Yeah, well, there’s plenty of it. I’ll meet you up front. You go ahead and get settled.”
    She should be getting settled in her new home. Maybe meeting a neighbor or two.
    Stephanie blinked back frustrated tears. She wanted to crawl between the soft sheets of her own bed. Not spread a borrowed sleeping bag across a linoleum floor. Not unwrap the sweatshirt and small pillow Brett Lincoln had tucked inside. She pressed gray flannel to her face, hoping a whiff of his aftershave would clear her head and give her strength. But the shirt smelled of soap instead of the spicy, woodsy scent she hoped for. She wrinkled her nose and put it aside.
    A ripple of excitement