They joined a drift of neighbors outside the basement door at 11:45 p.m.: an elderly man with paint-splattered cuffs, a barista clutching a tiny travel mug, two teenagers wearing matching headphones like armor, and an older woman who moved like she had once been a dancer and was now remembering steps. Someone had set up string lights. Someone else had brought cookies. It had a festival feel—small, warm, human.
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The rain hadn’t stopped for three days—the kind of relentless downpour that turns suburbs into silver mirrors and old secrets into rising floodwaters. They joined a drift of neighbors outside the
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