Charlotte’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the handle of the borrowed truck, a sturdy thing that felt far too fragile against the howling winds. She glanced at Alex, his jaw set with determination as he navigated through the hundreds of vehicles that inched along once they reached the interstate.

  Her mind raced as she and Alex drove across the increasingly treacherous roads. Rain lashed against the truck windows, and the wind threatened to blow them off I-75.

  “Can you see all right?” Charlotte asked, squinting through the windshield as another gust of wind slapped a sheet of rain against it.

  “Enough to know this isn’t going to be a smooth ride,” Alex replied briefly, flipping the wipers on high. The road ahead was a panorama of destruction. Power lines bowed and danced like frantic puppets before succumbing to the storm’s fury, snapping and falling across the interstate in tangled heaps of live wires sparking dangerously.

  “Watch out!” Charlotte’s warning came just in time for Alex to swerve around a hulking mass that was once a billboard, now nothing more than a crumpled landmark of the hurricane’s growing wrath.

  They drove on, the truck’s headlights revealing a grim procession of abandoned vehicles, some with hazard lights still blinking weakly, others silent and dark, their occupants having fled in search of safer harbor. Each one was a reminder of the urgency of their mission; her mother needed to be removed from the assisted living center before Ivan made landfall. Charlotte wondered if she should leave well enough alone concerning her relationship with her mother. As much as she wanted to, she wouldn’t expose her mother or her conscience to dwelling on the past. She’d put that behavior away a long time ago. She wasn’t that girl anymore, though there were times like now when she allowed herself to go there.

  “Look over there.” Alex pointed to a line of police cars, blue and red lights strobing through the downpour. Officers in reflective vests were signaling all southbound traffic to stop. With a grimace, Alex eased the truck into the line of vehicles.

  “Are they going to let us through?” Charlotte’s voice barely rose above the drumming rain.

  “Let’s hope so,” Alex said, and his tone held an edge of steel. “Your mother being stranded on the island should get us through. I might have to show my Florida driver’s license to prove I’m a legal resident,” he stated.

  As they inched forward, the devastation wrought by the oncoming hurricane became ever more apparent. Trees had given way to the assault, their branches strewn about like matchsticks. Signposts bent at unnatural angles, and farther on, a piece of someone’s shingles skittered across the road like a giant, misshapen leaf.

  “Look at all this,” Charlotte murmured, her heart heavy with foreboding, not just for her mother but for all those in the path of the storm.

  “Hey,” Alex said, reaching over squeezing her hand, “we’re going to make it to Sanibel, okay? I promised.” His eyes when they met hers were resolute, echoing the confidence in his grin.

  “Okay,” she whispered back, trying to absorb some of his conviction. They moved up the line, the officer’s hand finally waving them through after Alex showed his driver’s license and explained their situation, the gravity of their journey.

  The officer told them I-75 was closing soon, and they would need an alternate route. He suggested Highway 17, a road closer inland, one they were familiar with.

  Charlotte didn’t speak much to Alex, as she could see he was concentrating on driving. Instead, Charlotte’s thoughts focused on her history with her mother. They never had a normal mother/daughter relationship. She didn’t even know what a normal relationship was until she was in the fifth grade. And this was only after she’d spent the night with her best friend, Rhonda Davies. Rhonda’s mother was very friendly and affectionate to Charlotte. She made them breakfast every time Charlotte spent the night, and to this day Charlotte remembers what they ate: homemade waffles with bacon. And they drank fresh-squeezed orange juice made from Rhonda’s family’s orange trees in their backyard. Later they’d take the bus to Gulf Coast Center Mall, where they’d spend the day shopping. She remembered the necklaces they’d purchased at Claire’s. They read BESTIES FOREVER. She still had hers to this very day.

  Alex turned on the radio so they could listen for any weather updates. The announcer’s voice was laced with concern. “People of Southwest Florida, although they are accustomed to occasional storms due to their geographical location, had best prepare for Hurricane Ivan, as he’s a big guy. Residents are boarding up their homes and gathering essential supplies, fearing the worst.” He went on to suggest stores that still had cases of water and gas stations that were still open.

  Charlotte glanced at the gas gauge. “We’re okay in the fuel department?”

  Alex nodded. “Yeah, we’re good, plus we’ve got plenty in the cans.”

  She’d forgotten about those. “Johnathan’s a thoughtful guy,” she remarked. She wanted to ask what favor Alex did for Johnathan that warranted all this, but it wasn’t the time. He’d been a great friend to her, and she knew there was a possible chance their relationship might go further, but right now wasn’t the time for thoughts of a future relationship.

  As the skies darkened and ominous clouds loomed overhead, her anxiety heightened. She took a deep breath. The last thing Alex needed was her acting like a frightened idiot.

  Strong gusts of wind tossed debris through the air. Rain poured heavily, obscuring visibility, turning the road into a treacherous waterway.

  Highway 17 took them through Haines City, an old citrus town where one could smell the sweet scent of orange blossoms when driving through the small town during the spring. Charlotte had been through Haines City a few times during her secret drives to and from Florida. Sadly, now she recalled how she’d never bothered to make a stop at her childhood home on those visits to Florida. Her mother would’ve been enraged had she known she’d been in town and hadn’t bothered to visit. Charlotte’s thoughts were all over the place. She wondered if the orange trees would survive, and imagined how many folks would be out of a job as Mother Nature battered the small town.

  The truck crawled slowly down the highway into a scene of devastation. Charlotte wondered what would be left after the storm. She could imagine the old houses they passed would be reduced to piles of rubble, reminiscent of a war zone if the winds didn’t ease up soon. The streets would be filled with downed power lines and twisted metal, an eerie testament to the storm’s furious rampage. The sound of sirens wailing in the distance made her realize people could, and most likely would, lose their lives. She said a silent prayer that they would reach Sanibel before the full force of the hurricane made landfall.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  The Past

  Only one month until graduation, and Charlotte couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Florida. Mostly, to get away from her hateful witch of a mother. They fought constantly, and Charlotte knew if she didn’t get away, she would end up just like her: bitter, hateful, and angry. Her mother often reminded Charlotte how some bad decisions ruined her life. She told Charlotte almost daily if she hadn’t been knocked up, her life would have been so much better. A real self-esteem builder, Charlotte always thought. She didn’t care; let her say what she wanted.

  Charlotte had saved every dime she earned at Photo Mart, where she developed film and transferred VHS tapes to CDs. She was applying for a national scholarship offered by the Savannah College of Art and Design. She doubted she would be accepted, but Mr. Baker, who owned the Photo Mart, told her it wouldn’t hurt to apply. He’d seen most of her photos, since he allowed her to develop them at the store when she finished her work. He said she was a natural.

  Charlotte thought of him as the father she never had. Her own dad had died when she was only three, so she had no real memories of him. There were no photos at home, no picture albums to search through. Each time she asked her mother, Elsbeth—or Elsie, as her mother preferred—about his death, she clammed up and told Charlotte to shut the hell up. He’s dead. If you want to dig up the past, go to Memorial Gardens with a shovel. You’ll find Charles Gray dead as a doornail. “Crude” didn’t begin to describe her mother.

  Having no family, other than her mother, Charlotte was determined to make her life matter, even if no one cared enough to acknowledge her. Family, to her, was very overrated.

  Charlotte tucked the envelope into her backpack with the care that belied her indifferent posture.

  “Make sure you double-check the address,” Mr. Baker called from behind a stack of photo orders, his voice carrying the subtle warmth he reserved for his mentorship moments. Charlotte nodded without looking up.

  “Thanks, Mr. Baker,” she murmured, adjusting the strap of her book bag as if it could somehow support the weight of her future. “I will.” She checked the address one more time, and mentally crossed her fingers for luck. “See you tomorrow.” She said this every day before she left.

  “Sure thing, kiddo,” Mr. Baker replied as always.

  Stepping out into the muggy Florida air, she felt the immediate urge to escape, to sprint until the heaviness of her life evaporated in the rearview mirror of a Greyhound bus bound for anywhere but here. But she restrained herself, knowing that her salvation lay not in physical distance, but in the slim chance of an acceptance letter from SCAD. She forced herself to be realistic. Chances were slim she’d get the scholarship. Still, it’d given her something to dream about at night.

  Charlotte went inside the post office across the street from the Photo Mart. She wanted to personally hand the envelope to Peggy Snider, the postmistress who worked at the counter passing out stamps and registering letters for the folks in town. Charlotte knew she did more than that, but Peggy was serious when it came to the US mail, so she knew the application would be handled properly, and arrive at its destination in Georgia.

  “Hey there, Char,” Peggy said when she placed her envelope on the counter. “You mailing something for your mother?” she asked.

  “No, it’s mine.” She didn’t want to tell her what was inside the envelope. Peggy was as sweet as sugar but gossiped about everyone. Plus, Charlotte hated to be referred to as Char. It reminded her of Timmy Towson, with whom she’d gone to middle school. He always called her Char but added the harlot because he was an asshole. He’d moved away in their freshman year of high school. Good riddance.

  Peggy looked at the envelope, her penciled-on eyebrows lifting as she saw the address. “SCAD? Well, now that’s something, Char. I can’t imagine why you’d be posting a letter to them, but I’ll make sure it goes out in today’s mail.”

  “Thanks,” Charlotte said, knowing the minute she left the post office, Peggy would call her mother to find out what was in the letter. She smiled to herself, because their phone had been turned off for a week. Her mother “forgot” to pay the telephone bill. Again. Charlotte knew her mother wanted her to pay the bill, but no way in hell would she give up her hard-earned cash. Her mom had plenty of money now. For years, her mother would go to Circle K every Saturday to purchase a Powerball ticket. Then one day—surprise, surprise—her mom won two million dollars. The local news had covered her big win, and it’d been in the newspaper. For weeks, her mother had acted like she was the crème de la crème. Her fame faded quickly, and she returned to her normal self—a hateful, nasty bitch.

  Just the thought of her mother, Elsie, was like a dark cloud threatening to engulf the sliver of sunshine in Charlotte’s chest. Their last fight replayed in her mind, Elsie’s venomous words slicing through the already fragile fabric of their relationship. Her mother’s words pounded in her head like the beat of a drum: “You are as worthless as your father.” Charlotte had learned to armor herself against the bitterness, but the scars were etched deep, invisible to all but her.

  Walking past the rows of suburban sameness, as usual she avoided the path that would take her home too quickly. Instead, she found herself outside Memorial Gardens, the name etched in stone at the entrance, a grim reminder of the father she barely knew. Charles Gray. A man reduced to nothing more than a name on a tombstone and a topic forbidden by her mother’s wrath, unless she wanted to blame him for her lot in life, as she did most times when his name came up.

  “Dead as a doornail,” she muttered, repeating Elsie’s crass words with a scoff. There was no solace here among the manicured graves, no answers to the questions that had haunted her since childhood. What really happened to my father?

  She turned away from the cemetery, her resolve hardening with every step. Charlotte would not end up like Elsie, trapped in a cycle of regret and resentment. She clung to the dream of a life filled with purpose, art, and maybe even joy—a life of her own making.

  “Family is overrated,” she whispered to herself, the statement becoming her mantra. Her choices would be her own without input from her mother. As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of defiance, Charlotte made a silent vow to carve out a future starkly different from her past.

  Chapter Two

  Charlotte checked the mail every day, hoping to hear something from SCAD. She had sent in the scholarship application weeks ago but had no way of knowing how long the process would take.

  Every evening like clockwork, Charlotte found herself perched on the edge of the worn, floral-patterned sofa that seemed as much a fixture of the house as the walls themselves. Her eyes, fixed in an unwavering stare, were drawn to the narrow view of the front porch through the living room window—the paint chipping off the windowsill bearing silent testament to neglect. She should offer to paint the house; it would take her mind off the scholarship. Maybe. No. She couldn’t. The smell of paint would disturb her mother.

  Charlotte’s fingers drummed a staccato rhythm against her knee, the tick of the old grandfather clock in the corner harmonizing with the silent melody of her anxiety. The mail’s arrival was never constant; the delivery times were as varied as the patterns of her mother’s moods. But the vigil remained; it was all she could do not to sprint to the box the moment she heard the distant clunk of neighboring lids.

  Graduation loomed—a mere two weeks away—and with it, the closing of a chapter that tasted of stale air and lingering frustration. Each tick of the clock, each turn of another calendar page, was a stark reminder of the finite nature of time and the urgency of her anticipation.

  As dusk settled in, painting the world in shades of twilight, the reality of another day without a word from SCAD sank in, leaving behind a hollow echo in her chest. Yet she remained steadfast, the flicker of hope refusing to be extinguished entirely—as stubborn as the mold on the side of the house.

  Tomorrow she would sit here again, watching, waiting.

  She went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, grabbed a can of Coke. Closing the door, she saw an old photograph that had been wedged beneath a magnet on the refrigerator door. It was one of her school pictures, fifth grade, where smiles are stretched too wide and eyes hold no secrets. Her fingers traced the outline of her younger self. The edges of the photo frayed from years of being handled each time she was in the kitchen. She vowed to herself that if she ever had children, she would frame their pictures all over her house for all to see, not keep them hidden behind a local pharmacy magnet.

  Four days before graduation, Charlotte skulked by the mailbox, her eyes darting between the slits of the rusted metal door. Her breath hitched as she spied the corner of a thick white envelope peeking out. She opened the lid and saw the embossed logo of SCAD. Her fingers trembled and her heart beat wildly. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the bustle around her fading into a muted backdrop. She clutched the envelope to her chest, the weight of her future pressing against her sternum. Charlotte wanted to leap into the air, to twirl and scream her triumph or despair for all the neighborhood to witness. But she was a fortress of restraint; no crack in her façade would appear in public view.

  She slipped through the front door, navigating the familiar creaks of the wooden floorboards with practiced ease. Her mother wasn’t home yet, a small mercy in this moment of reckoning. Charlotte retreated to her sanctuary—her room, where teal walls were adorned with photos that captured fragments of the world as she saw it, each image a testament to her dreams.

  Her fingers rubbed at the seal of the envelope; she was almost afraid to open it. She didn’t dare imagine Mr. Baker’s face, the creases of concern when he’d asked about her submission, his voice always tinged with unspoken support. Nor did she let herself recall Peggy’s inquisitive gaze, how the postmistress had lingered just a second too long over her envelope, her interest as transparent as the glass of the post office window. She held the thick envelope close to her as her heart raced and her hands shook. This was her moment, and she did not want her mother to share any part of it. No matter if the news was good or bad. It was hers to receive. The paper’s texture was smooth and elegant. Made with high-quality cotton. For a moment she wondered if this fancy paper was reserved for those who only received bad news. She used her fingernail to carefully open the envelope. Maybe this was their way of easing the letdown. Charlotte took a deep breath and then exhaled, a slow stream of air that carried with it the fears of denial. This was her rite of passage, the culmination of hidden hopes and quiet toil. She carefully opened the envelope and removed the single sheet it contained. Unfolding it, she willed herself to read it but hesitated. The paper crinkled under her fingertips as she held the letter close to her chest.

  Summoning her courage, she read: “Dear Charlotte,” her whispered voice barely above a breath as her eyes devoured the words printed before her. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the world, as she searched for the sentence that would either forge her path or fracture her dreams.