“Uncertain,” David said. “But the model has it strengthening fast. If it turns into a hurricane, we’ll be looking at evacuation protocols.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Keep me updated,” I said. “And make sure guests get clear information. No panic, just facts.”
That afternoon, the sky turned that particular shade of gray that makes locals stop joking and start checking plywood. The air got heavy. The wind shifted. If you’ve lived near the ocean long enough, your body learns to recognize when the water is thinking.
The guests currently in the house were a young couple from Ohio celebrating an anniversary. They’d been polite from the start, the kind of renters who left shoes by the door and wiped counters without being asked.
Kara, the wife, knocked on my door near dusk. “Mrs. Sterling,” she said, cheeks flushed from the wind, “we saw the news. Are we in danger?”
I didn’t pretend the ocean was harmless. “Not tonight,” I said. “But we prepare early. That’s how coastal living works.”
Her husband, Matt, hovered behind her. “We don’t want to be a burden,” he said quickly. “If we need to leave, we will.”