Beatrice led the group of friends out of the jungle and onto one of the island’s deserted roads. Pools of floodwater some the size of lakes, scattered tree limbs and trash made the street impassable for vehicles large or small. Certainly the island bus service would not be running any time soon. Still it was calm now, unlike the night before.

Then, the cyclone had been a horrifying beast outside the boarded, shut windows of Beatrice’s tiny house on stilts. Flying debris had slammed against their porch and branches crashed onto the roof. Her family prayed a lot that night, listening to Radio Fiji on their battery-powered, shortwave radio.

The next morning was so quiet not even the island birds were singing. It’s kind of spooky, Beatrice thought, ahead another empty, washed-out street.

So far she had not heard of anyone reported dead or missing. Was that true for the other islands and atolls? Had the fisherman made it back to land in time? Beatrice looked back at her giggling friends running along behind her. At their feet dark puddles bubbled from seawater seeping through the island’s porous coral ground.