Bert was a hurricane. He made landfall along the south Texas coast and pooped out. Cindy stayed out in the Atlantic, past Bermuda. None of them anything to write home about. But low-pressure masses kept firing themselves from the Cape Verde Islands, from the coast of Africa, like baseballs. An ocean full of storms. Dennis was lumbering toward Florida. Emily was a whirling blob somewhere east of the Windward Islands. Floyd was stacked up behind them, a giant saucer of wind and rain. Floyd was the one everyone at the Weather was keeping an eye on, the one getting all the attention. If there was going to be a Harvey, it would simply have to wait its turn. Local Forecast had a lot to keep track of. Winds coiling up and then unraveling, all the watches and warnings, storm surges, rainfall totals, evacuations. Most nights he sat up late, waiting for updates. It took a lot of concentration to keep it all straight in his head. Especially since now there was this girl sleeping on the couch. He had to scootch around her just so he could see.
