Two years ago during Hurricane Harvey, my mom, brothers, my step dad, and I all decided to evacuate, while the rest of my family lingered, confident that the storm would not act as bad as the news said. On the day that we left, I was in my room, everything was either gone or were stacked up on my bed. On top of it sat a number of cardboard boxes, not leaving enough room on it for one to sit, much less lie down. I strode over to my closet and inspected the last possession in there, a box of all the books that I’ve ever owned. My mom called to me from the living room, and we made our way to the driveway, and left Texas. 

The rain started a day after we left. While we were gone, we stayed at my step dad’s old childhood home, which is actually where I am living right now in Ohio. 

Two weeks later, our car pulled up to our house back in Texas, but we had no idea how bad it was from the outside. The ditches were filled to the brim with green water. On our carport, we had a fridge, but it had been tipped over on its side by the flood water. 

“Oh my god,” my mom gasped as we trudged across the threshold of our house, the scent of river water ravaging our nostrils. All over the walls, there were signs of the flood. There were little pools of leftover dirty river water here and there, as well as there was a mossy green line six inches above the floor, with ivory dots reaching well above it. 

When I ran into my room, I, too, gasped. My old bed was destroyed. As the highest point in the room, my family had stacked boxes in hopes of preserving what little could fit on it. The waters had reached the bottom of the bed, making it possible for mold to grow, while the boxes above remained dry as clothes right out of the dryer. Both the smooth wood frame and the bed itself were covered in jet black dots: mold. My younger brother, known as Texas up here, patted my shoulder softly. “Mom,” he called into the other room, “Pierce needs a new bed!” My mom groaned from the living room. 

She called back, “We’ll deal with that after we replace the walls and floors!” 

My cousin, Erin, was a contractor, so my mom called him. He was busy because almost everybody in town was calling his company, asking for them to come fix their homes. He referred us to a friend of his, an independent contractor by the name of Rabbit. 

Rabbit showed up later that day in an old, red truck with tools sticking up out of the bed. “No problem, Ms. Haynes!” His voice was gruff like gravel. He had a long, dark beard that reached his stomach, and he stood at a good five foot seven inches. We helped Rabbit where we could, but for the most part, he took care of it himself. 

He finished my mom and step dad's room first, so that’s where we slept. We only had sleeping bags, but we made do. After a few days, I returned to school, after having lost hope that it had been damaged in the flood. 

On the day we arrived back in Texas, I stood in my room, staring at the disaster that it contained. Although there were a number of boxes that my family had stacked on my bed, there were some that stayed on the floor. One of them had contained my collection of books. When I pulled them out of the cardboard box, they were moldy and moist, the mossy covers sticking to my fingers. From my first book The Lightning Thief to my latest one The Blood of Olympus, they were all destroyed by that insipid storm. My jaw tightened. 

My bedroom was stripped. All of the sheetrock, as well as the dark brown floorboards had been taken to the road to be collected at a later date. The brown wood, as well as the supports that appeared every few feet were left untouched by the flood water. The grey cement that made the foundation had a slight green tint to it in circular spots randomly located all around the floor.