A Report from Home

Kenny called on the walkie-talkie--he made it into New Orleans. He told the cops that stopped him at a checkpoint that he’d come into town to check on the restaurant. Still no concrete news on our house, but it doesn’t look good. Kenny and his dad got to our street, but it was flooded and they couldn't drive any further than about a block down from the highway before the water was up past the tires on the Explorer and they had to turn around. He said it’s bad—that he could tell that the further down the street, the higher the water. Our house is in the last block. He also said that the smell of the water, which obviously included a lot of raw sewage, was so overwhelming and god-awful that both he and his dad leaned out of the car and threw up. Goodbye, house.

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