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hunched over a broom, next to a large pile of window shards. I hurried across the street, eager for the distraction.
    “Hi, Mr. Felix!”
    “If it isn’t little Miss Adele.”
    Behind him, a couple of younger guys I didn’t recognize exited Palermo’s deli, carrying a moldy refrigerator. The little corner store was not in good shape, but I tried not to let the shock show on my face. Palermo’s was one of the many Italian delicatessens that had opened after a huge influx of Southern Italians migrated to the city in the late nineteenth century. They have mountains and the Mediterranean, and we have marshes and the Mississippi – I’m not sure I see the appeal – the climate’s similar, I suppose.
    The guys dropped the fridge near the curb and quickly retreated back into the deli.
    “When did you and Mrs. Rosaria get back?” I asked, giving the old man a hug.
    “We snuck back a few days ago, but it wasn’t ’til yesterday that I found a couple of boys to help us start haulin’ the trash out. They’re staying in the top-floor apartment, trading rent for labor. If ya ask me, I’m getting the better end of the deal – the apartment doesn’t even have electricity. But they’re over from the motherland, lookin’ for some missing relatives, so they’ve got bigger problems.”
    “We’re running a generator,” I said. “I don’t think anyone in the Quarter has electricity, yet.”
    “We got a few feet of water. It poured in the storefront window where an old Chevy had pushed through. The boys managed to get the car out last night, and we were still mopping water out this morning. Looters trashed the place.” He sighed. “I suppose I can’t really blame them. People need to eat. This hurricane, Addie, I don’t know. I’ve been through Betsy and Camille and at least a couple dozen more, but something’s just not right about this one.”
    I didn’t know why, but I understood what he meant. Something just felt off. I had tried to convince myself that the feeling was just due to being away for so long, combined with the shock at the level of destruction, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was different. That something had changed.
    He gestured to the store. “You go in there and take anything you and your pop need. That is, if there’s anything left.”
    “I’m not taking anything from you without paying—”
    “Adele, you go salvage anything you can. And don’t you worry about it; I’m filin’ an insurance claim tomorrow. Capisc e ? ” He gave me an exaggerated wink.
    “ Capisce .” I smiled and walked towards the entrance.
    “And be careful in there, Adele! It’s a goddamn mess.”
    I yelled, “Okay,” over my shoulder and stopped in the entrance. The store’s enormous retro sign had been split in half. The half with “PAL” still seemed secure, but the “ERMO’S” half now hung at a dangerous ninety-degree angle. I hurried underneath to enter the store. The whole city was starting to feel like one giant booby-trapped obstacle course.
     
    * * *
     
    Flies buzzed around mounds of brown-colored mush that used to be fruit but now reeked like rotten grass. I covered my nose and mouth to mask the smell, attempting to control my jerking stomach muscles, and then hurried to the other side of the store, being extra careful not to step on anything that would require a tetanus shot after.
    Sauntering down the remaining aisles, I assessed my options, scared of anything not preserved in glass, aluminum, or a vacuum-sealed bag. Most of the nonperishables had already been cleared out. I grabbed a can of steel-cut oats as if it was gold, and then a couple sacks of red beans and rice. Would bigger supermarket chains look like this too – empty shelves with a rotting inventory? Would we have to ration these oats? Surely the government would intervene if it came to that… right?
    I quickly scooped up two cans of tomato soup, and, through the empty space they opened up, got a