Page 11 of The Shield
For now, I let the moment hold me. The beer was cold, the company quiet, the view endless. And that was enough.
5
NATALIE
By early afternoon, back at the office, the place felt too clean for the way my stomach kept turning.
We worked Saturdays more often than we admitted—field in the morning, data in the afternoon—so the lights were on, the coffee burned, and the city hummed outside like usual. Sun poured through the tall Meeting Street windows, sharp enough to make the acetate overlays gleam like church glass.
On my monitors, though, the colors told a different kind of gospel. The tropical low that had been loafing offshore all week was finally flirting with commitment—model runs lining up, rainfall totals creeping from maybe to likely.
Late Sunday through midweek. On top of king tides.
“We should get ahead of this,” I said, half to myself, dragging a fingertip along the blue-and-red edge where the peninsula pinched skinny around the Market. The Lockwood corridor glared at me like a dare. Eastside sat in that familiar shallow bowl, a heartbreak I could trace in my sleep. “If we wait for the first puddles, it’s already too late.”
Owen leaned against the doorjamb with a cup of coffee he’d charmed from the bakery downstairs, watching me the way you watch a dog who’s picked up a scent. “With what? A bullhorn on the steps of City Hall? It’s a sunny Saturday, Nat. You tell people to prep sandbags right now, they’ll roast you alive in the comments before the pralines set.”
“It isn’t about optics,” I said. “It’s about tires and oil pans and kids who have to be at school Monday morning.”
“Sure,” he said mildly, coming closer, eyes on the second monitor where the Weather Prediction Center discussion scrolled like a second language only we bothered to learn. “But credibility matters if you want them to listen the next time. Let Huck push the first bulletin. We’ll amplify. Don’t be the girl crying flood on a sunny day.”
I looked out the window. He wasn’t wrong about the day. The sky had plenty of clouds, but it was postcard blue. The carriage horses clopped past with tails braided, tourists mooned over balconies, bridesmaids in matching sashes clinked plastic flutes under a palm. Charleston put on its best face in good light. She did it better than any woman I knew.
But I carried the other face in my head—the one that lurked whenever a storm bent wrong: water stacking in the drains, lapping at tires, the slow stubborn creep up front steps. That face didn’t care how blue the sky had been.
My phone buzzed against the desk. An email from Huck Kiser at Public Works:You two seeing the same rain window? Not ready to go public yet—send clean bullets and I’ll run it up.
“‘Not ready to go public yet,’” I read aloud. “Translation: if we hand him words, he’ll slap a logo on them and we get the warning without being the warning.”
“Now you’re speaking my language,” Owen said, easing onto the edge of my desk like it was his by squatter’s rights. “Make itplain. No apocalypse. Drains, cars, timing. Leave the politics out. Please, for once.”
“I always leave the politics out,” I said.
He made a noncommittal sound that translated toyou leave it out of your mouth and put it in your eyes. He wasn’t wrong.
I pulled up our template and started typing.
Tropical moisture offshore could bring periods of steady rain Sunday through Wednesday. Daily high tides will overlap with heavier bands, increasing street flooding risk in low-lying areas: Eastside, Rosemont, Lockwood corridor, South of Broad, Market area. Park on higher ground where possible. Clear storm drains today while weather is dry. Do not drive through standing water (12” can disable most vehicles). Avoid low garages. Check neighbors.
I added a link to our map and a promise of pop-ups with sandbag info if the forecast held.
Owen read over my shoulder. “Good.”
“Good-good or …?”
“Good-good,” he said, and then, because he couldn’t help himself, “move the ‘do not drive’ line up. People skim.”
I moved it. My jaw unclenched. It always did a little when the solution slid into the space all the worry had been rattling around in.
I hit save and sent it to Huck with a politefor your considerationinstead of aplease post this before the sun goes down or God, help me, I will. Kimmy answered my text two seconds later despite it being her day off:Send me the flyer text and a photo—no, not your face—of a storm drain we can make look dramatic.
“Adderley’s cross street is always clogged with oak fluff,” Owen said, already pulling up Street View for a still. “We can fix it for real next month. Today, they get a pretty picture and guilt.”
“Manipulation is an ugly word,” I said. “I prefer ‘effective persuasion.’”
“Uh huh,” he said, and grinned.
Work steadied me. It always had. I was building the outlines of a thing we couldn’t stop but could manage. The city listened better when you gave it tasks: clear, small, doable. Move your car. Clean your drain. Check your neighbor. Don’t pretend the ocean loves you more than it loves itself.
