The next morning, Beth was exultant over some changes in the wind. She was already awake and sitting at the room’s only desk, the computer screen reflecting a moonish glow on her face, when Janine’s alarm went off at seven.

“They just named it,” Beth said. “Helen. It’s a named storm.”

Janine blinked in the dark room—Beth had pointedly drawn the heavy curtains last night, though Janine preferred to let in a little sunlight to make waking up easier. She imagined a cool wind whipping through the mangroves and sea oats, dark clouds moving fast across the sky.

“That’s good,” she said sleepily. She sat up. “I guess.”

Janine showered and changed—quickly, half-hidden by the bathroom door, for she was shy in the presence of her daughter’s perfect body—into the sturdy, comfortable clothes she would have worn during the back-to-school rush: capri pants and a T-shirt, sandals with cushioned insoles. She combed her wet hair, decided against blow-drying, patted sunscreen onto her cheeks.

“If it keeps heading this way, they might be evacuating by Friday,” Beth said. “I may need you to help me with the camera I brought.”

“Bethy, I have class all week,” Janine said. “I’m sure we won’t be evacuating.”

“We won’t be,” Beth said ominously, but when Janine peeked outside—it was already muggy and hot—she saw another sunny, cloudless day, no reason to worry. A little part of her was disappointed on Beth’s behalf, but it was true that she had been looking forward to the residency since April. “Come to breakfast,” she said. “You didn’t meet all my friends last night. They’re serving pancakes.”

“I have an energy bar,” Beth said, clacking away at her keyboard. “Thanks.”

Workshop was buzzing with talk not about the storm, but about Tad Tucker—rumor was that he planned to arrive on Wednesday for the fiction workshop. Janine took a seat between Maggie and Manfred, both looking bleary-eyed and sleepy. Janine wondered if Maggie had patched things up with her husband, if Manfred was on or off the wagon. Three students had not shown up; Janine could think of a hundred reasons why, but people were speculating that it was concern over the Ranch’s recent controversies.

“He doesn’t look like much of a writer,” Lilian sniffed, twisting a diamond tennis bracelet around her thin, tanned wrist.

“How much do any of us look like writers?” Maggie asked.

Lilian patted her smooth bob; clearly she thought she looked writerly, or at least cultured.

Maggie shrugged. “I look like a soccer mom. I drive a minivan. I am a soccer mom.”

“Lorraine looks like a writer,” Janine said. She had decided that Lilian was harmless, even pitiable, just a rich and lonely woman, some doctor’s former trophy wife. “Or at least she looks the way I pictured writers looking.”