Our basement is wet and cold. I huddle against my sister and brother, their warmth seeps into me and spreads through my body. My parents hold us closer, their arms encircling us in an embrace of love and protection. We can hear the aggressive wind ripping our house apart above our heads. I wonder if our neighbors are safe, our relatives, my friends. What if we are the only survivors? My hands shake uncontrollably with fear. I clench them tightly, until my bony knuckles turn white. We had very little time to prepare. The weathermen said the hurricane was supposed to miss us, but they were wrong. We had a day to prepare. The supermarkets were packed, teeming with frantic people searching for food to last them through the storm. People were fighting over cans of beans and soup. I guess that’s where the old saying “desperate times call for desperate measures” comes from. We spent the night getting the basement ready.