Afterward, it didn't matter that he was born wrong. He was safe now that he had a moat. The power lines hung snapping, shocking the water alive. Before the storm, he'd folded himself into the shadows of his house, and the porch stank of lobbed eggs, sulfuric in the Southern heat. But after she tore through, their throwing arms failed to float.

He rocked in his glider, watching the new river. They said, disaster. He said, second chance.