“Yeah, that ridge took a hit. Wasn’t fully evacuated before the waters rose. We had boats out there at dawn. Can’t guarantee anything yet, but we’ve been pulling people in all day. Sit tight. I’ll get someone to check if she’s come through here.”
I nod stiffly, and start to turn away, then stop.
Sitting around won’t help.
I cross the room to the ‘Volunteer Check-In’ sign, where a woman with a clipboard directs me to a table near the back. A guy in a reflective vest and sweat-soaked shirt is bent over paperwork. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a day.
“We’ve got more than enough people in the field,” he says when I ask if I can help. “What we really need is support here. Families are still calling in, looking for people. Half the evacuees came in without ID. We don’t even know who we have.”
I straighten. “What do you need me to do?”
He grabs a notebook from the table and hands it to me. There are barely a dozen names scribbled on it.
“We’re trying to build a master list. Everyone in this shelter, we need names, any info they’ve given. Start with this. Once you’ve added the rest, I need someone to get on the radio and pass the list to the centre up in Fredericksburg. They're tracking medical intakes.”
I take the notebook, flipping through the pages, already thinking about how I’ll organize it. I glance over my shoulder, families huddled in blankets, kids holding onto stuffed animals, people sitting by themselves, eyes vacant.
They’re waiting to be claimed.
“Got it,” I say.
He nods, grateful. “Good man. Thank you.”
I pull a pen from the table and head for the first cot. It’s not how I thought today would go. But it’s something.
I move from cot to cot, notebook in hand.
Some give their names quietly, like they’re still in shock. Whole families huddled together, parents with kids wrapped indonated blankets. A few seniors nod politely and spell out their last names, adding where they were rescued from. I jot it all down.
Then come the kids. A pair of siblings, maybe seven and ten, sitting side by side on a mat near the corner. No adults with them. The older one says her name is Leila, and that her grandma was with them but didn’t make it to the truck. I write it down, careful with the spelling.
A boy no older than five clutches a soaked teddy bear. He doesn’t talk, just stares past me. A volunteer leans in and tells me they found him alone on the side of the road near Junction. No name. I scribble “Unknown minor, male, approx. age 5, found near Junction.”
Each line I write feels heavier than the last.
Some people ask if I’ve seen their loved ones. I shake my head, gently. Tell them the names are being passed to other shelters, that they’ll contact us if anyone matches. I wish I could offer more.
By the time I finish the room, the page is full. I walk back to the man in the vest and hand it over.
“Good,” he says, flipping through it. “Now let’s get it over the radio.”
And just like that, I’m back on my feet again. Not just waiting. Doing something. Anything.
We head to the back where a portable radio sits on a fold-up table beside an open binder of frequency codes. He points to the right channel and I sit down, list in hand, reading the names one by one. On the other end, a voice repeats each name back andconfirms if there’s a match in their centre. Most are no. A few get “possible matches, stand by.”
I jot those down in the margin, just in case.
When I’m done, I return the notebook to the man in the vest, Doug, I learn later and ask what else they need. He hands me a plastic bin filled with basic first aid. “See who needs something. Blisters, cuts, meds. Be gentle, but ask.”
So, I do. I wrap someone’s swollen ankle. Fetch water for an elderly woman who can’t stand. Hold a flashlight while a volunteer checks on a kid’s breathing. It’s chaotic in small, quiet ways. Nobody’s screaming. But the exhaustion is thick in the air.
Around midnight, I make my way to the landline by the admin desk. The volunteer there looks up and nods. “We’re letting people call out if it’s important. Try to keep it under two minutes.”
I nod, dialling home from memory. My mom picks up. Relief floods her voice when she hears mine.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Still no word. But I’m safe, and I’m helping out here. How are the kids?”
“They’re okay,” she says. “Scared, but holding on. Iris kept asking when you’ll call.”