He looked down. “Lots of boats got busted up in the storm, so it took a long time to get some together to rescue all the folks who were trapped. Took days before they got to my house. The news helicopters kept circling, filming us, but they didn’t help.”

Andra’s shoulders clenched. “God. You think when you go through something so terrible, that if one person could see, they’d help. Of course they would.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “Those news crews had cameras, not ropes, and there was nowhere to land. There was plenty of bad in those days. Not enough cops, too many freaked-out soldiers, everything all messed up. But it was volunteers who came and got us off that roof, volunteers who helped us clean up the debris once they pumped the water out. I don’t ever forget that.” He sat down on his bed, the mattress creaking, and he stared at that old half door. “I always meant to frame it. It’s—hell, it’s my whole life, right there. But somehow it never made it out of the closet.”

She sat down next to him. “Did you ever talk to a therapist, after?”

“No time, no money. For a long time, I was busy trying to get a roof built over our heads again. And by then . . . Lots of people talk about Katrina, everything it messed up, everything it took. I didn’t want to think about it.”

“Funny how the not thinking about it doesn’t make it go away.” She looked down at her jean-clad knees, the right one brushing his.

“No. It don’t.” He slung an arm around her shoulder, and she looked up at him. She put a hand on the bed, pushing herself up enough to kiss his cheek. Her small lips—it was such a tiny gesture, but it knotted his throat all up. He had to clear it twice. “What was that for?”

“Because of course you’d try to save everyone.”

He shook his head, thinking of all the days of digging through rubble, looking for trapped survivors. Splinters all through his raw hands and no way to get gloves or tweezers. Wading through half-submerged streets, the bullet wound in his leg weeping blood under filthy bandages. The air so hot the dirty water started to feel good. “Didn’t do no good. After Katrina, it was too late to really save anybody.”

Her hand traveled up from the bed onto his thigh. “Maybe. But you didn’t give up on them. Just like you didn’t give up on me.”

It was hard to think with her hand so close to his fly, but he managed a laugh out of a dry throat. “You did boil garlic with the skins on. But I think I can make a cook out of you yet.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she whispered, and kissed him.