I rolled my eyes. Since Superstorm Bernice, so many people who ran organizations or colleges or megachurches in the city wanted to have dinner with my dad. Sometimes, they came out to our house and I had to sit through the boring dinners with them. First they’d draw me out about my education and the art I collect. They might even try to get on my good side by being kind to Pollock, but I could tell they weren’t really interested. They were just waiting for the right time to bring their big ideas out to my dad, and ask for his big money. Sometimes he was interested. And sometimes the ideas were kind of fascinating. One developer, for example, wanted to make parts of the city like Las Vegas—casinos, live shows, disaster tourism with fancy resorts away from the worst of it, a place that people would go, spend all their money, and leave again. My father said that idea was “enterprising,” but in the end, he didn’t choose to invest.

I sat back down, feeling defeated. Pollock jumped into my lap. “I’ll just stay here on the couch,” I said, kind of pouting. “And watch Turner and the Taliban.”

“I think it would be good for you to come into the city with me, Evann,” he said. “FEMA has set up a little solar-powered community in Central Park. Old Upper East Side residents are coming to help generate energy by making solar power capturing sand murals. People aren’t living back there yet, but they go there for weekends, and I’ve heard that it can be fun, a real community thing. Why don’t you come in tonight?”

I thought about it. I still had all those terrible memories of my little chou apartment destroyed. But here I was, sitting on the couch, wasting away. I hadn’t washed my hair in three days, and it was stringy and greasy. I guess I didn’t smell too great, either, because I hadn’t showered in as many days. I hadn’t gone out to see my friends, I hadn’t done anything, really. So maybe the city wasn’t the worst idea. I would just avoid all the places I had loved, that would never again be what I had fallen in love with.