Chapter 7
On the fifth day after the storm, I got the cameras back online—not the ones in Derek's destroyed beach house, but something better.
The convention center shelter had public security feeds. Basic, low-resolution, meant for crowd monitoring. But a tech-savvy survivor had hacked into them and was streaming the footage on a message board, claiming the public deserved transparency about conditions in the shelters.
I found the stream on my phone during one of the brief windows when cell service flickered back to life.
Mom and I sat in the basement, phone propped between us, watching.
The convention center was a nightmare. Thousands of people crammed onto the floor with thin blankets and cots spaced inches apart. The air conditioning was dead. Temperatures inside had soared past 95 degrees. Children were crying. Old people sat motionless against walls, eyes vacant.
Water distribution was rationed—one bottle per person per day. Food came in the form of MREs, handed out twice daily.
And there, in the far corner of Camera 4, I spotted them.
Derek was sitting on a cot, shirt off, fanning himself with a piece of cardboard. Megan was lying next to him, curled on her side, one hand on her swollen belly.
Even through the grainy footage, I could see they were fighting.
Megan's mouth was moving rapidly, her face twisted with anger. Derek kept shaking his head, arms crossed.
"No sound?" Mom asked.
"No sound. But watch their body language."
We didn't need audio. The story told itself.
A shelter volunteer approached with a tray of MREs. Two packets. Derek grabbed both. Megan reached for one, and he pulled it away, tearing it open with his teeth.
Megan lunged for it. Derek elbowed her back onto the cot.
For a moment, she just stared at him—the same way I'd stared at him when the water rose around me. That specific look of realizing the person you trusted most was never who you thought they were.
Then Megan did something unexpected. She stood up, walked to the volunteer station, and started talking to the workers there. Pointing back at Derek. Gesturing at her belly. Wiping her eyes.
Within minutes, a female volunteer escorted Megan to a separate section—the area reserved for pregnant women and families with infants—where she got her own cot, her own water ration, and a warm meal.
Derek watched her leave from across the shelter floor. His face was unreadable.
"Smart girl," Mom murmured. "She's cutting him loose."
"Temporarily. She'll go back when she needs something."
"You think?"
"I know Megan. She doesn't have loyalty. She has survival instinct."
Mom made popcorn. Actual popcorn, popped on the camp stove with oil and salt. She poured it into a big bowl, and we watched the shelter feed like it was reality TV.
Over the next two days, the pattern repeated. Derek got more aggressive, more desperate. He tried to charm other women in the shelter for extra food. One woman's husband caught him and there was a shoving match that brought the National Guard over.
Derek got a warning. Then another warning.
On the second night, we watched him sneak into the supply area after dark. He stuffed two water bottles and an MRE into his shirt.
A guardsman caught him on camera. Within the hour, Derek was escorted outside the shelter and told he was banned for 48 hours.
Through the hacked feed, I watched my ex-husband standing in the parking lot of a wrecked convention center, surrounded by debris, holding one stolen water bottle, with nowhere to go.
Mom clinked her mug against mine. "Cheers."
"Cheers, Mom."
That night, I heated up a can of beef stew and made instant mashed potatoes. Mom baked cornbread in a cast-iron skillet on the camp stove—golden, crumbly, perfect.
We ate until we were full, washed the dishes with filtered water, and climbed into our cots in the cool basement.
Above us, the house was dark and silent, sealed tight. No light leaked out. No sound escaped. To anyone passing by, it looked abandoned—just another storm-damaged shell.
But inside, we were warm. We were fed. We were safe.
"Mom," I said in the dark.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for being reborn with me."
A long pause. Then, softly: "I think we were reborn for each other, sweetheart."
I closed my eyes.
And on the screen across the room, still glowing faintly, Derek was sitting alone in a flooded parking lot, drinking stolen water in the dark.
---
The convention center shelter had public security feeds. Basic, low-resolution, meant for crowd monitoring. But a tech-savvy survivor had hacked into them and was streaming the footage on a message board, claiming the public deserved transparency about conditions in the shelters.
I found the stream on my phone during one of the brief windows when cell service flickered back to life.
Mom and I sat in the basement, phone propped between us, watching.
The convention center was a nightmare. Thousands of people crammed onto the floor with thin blankets and cots spaced inches apart. The air conditioning was dead. Temperatures inside had soared past 95 degrees. Children were crying. Old people sat motionless against walls, eyes vacant.
Water distribution was rationed—one bottle per person per day. Food came in the form of MREs, handed out twice daily.
And there, in the far corner of Camera 4, I spotted them.
Derek was sitting on a cot, shirt off, fanning himself with a piece of cardboard. Megan was lying next to him, curled on her side, one hand on her swollen belly.
Even through the grainy footage, I could see they were fighting.
Megan's mouth was moving rapidly, her face twisted with anger. Derek kept shaking his head, arms crossed.
"No sound?" Mom asked.
"No sound. But watch their body language."
We didn't need audio. The story told itself.
A shelter volunteer approached with a tray of MREs. Two packets. Derek grabbed both. Megan reached for one, and he pulled it away, tearing it open with his teeth.
Megan lunged for it. Derek elbowed her back onto the cot.
For a moment, she just stared at him—the same way I'd stared at him when the water rose around me. That specific look of realizing the person you trusted most was never who you thought they were.
Then Megan did something unexpected. She stood up, walked to the volunteer station, and started talking to the workers there. Pointing back at Derek. Gesturing at her belly. Wiping her eyes.
Within minutes, a female volunteer escorted Megan to a separate section—the area reserved for pregnant women and families with infants—where she got her own cot, her own water ration, and a warm meal.
Derek watched her leave from across the shelter floor. His face was unreadable.
"Smart girl," Mom murmured. "She's cutting him loose."
"Temporarily. She'll go back when she needs something."
"You think?"
"I know Megan. She doesn't have loyalty. She has survival instinct."
Mom made popcorn. Actual popcorn, popped on the camp stove with oil and salt. She poured it into a big bowl, and we watched the shelter feed like it was reality TV.
Over the next two days, the pattern repeated. Derek got more aggressive, more desperate. He tried to charm other women in the shelter for extra food. One woman's husband caught him and there was a shoving match that brought the National Guard over.
Derek got a warning. Then another warning.
On the second night, we watched him sneak into the supply area after dark. He stuffed two water bottles and an MRE into his shirt.
A guardsman caught him on camera. Within the hour, Derek was escorted outside the shelter and told he was banned for 48 hours.
Through the hacked feed, I watched my ex-husband standing in the parking lot of a wrecked convention center, surrounded by debris, holding one stolen water bottle, with nowhere to go.
Mom clinked her mug against mine. "Cheers."
"Cheers, Mom."
That night, I heated up a can of beef stew and made instant mashed potatoes. Mom baked cornbread in a cast-iron skillet on the camp stove—golden, crumbly, perfect.
We ate until we were full, washed the dishes with filtered water, and climbed into our cots in the cool basement.
Above us, the house was dark and silent, sealed tight. No light leaked out. No sound escaped. To anyone passing by, it looked abandoned—just another storm-damaged shell.
But inside, we were warm. We were fed. We were safe.
"Mom," I said in the dark.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for being reborn with me."
A long pause. Then, softly: "I think we were reborn for each other, sweetheart."
I closed my eyes.
And on the screen across the room, still glowing faintly, Derek was sitting alone in a flooded parking lot, drinking stolen water in the dark.
---