There we were in the storm, a cross-section of working-class America, watching forecasters project us as Ground Zero for Irma, the spaghetti models snaking like Medusa's hair up the Gulf Coast. We were in evacuation zone C, and most everyone on the street stayed put, fearing the unknown of distant highways and gasless cars. Would our windows and roofs hold up? Would storm surge send water up our street and into our houses? Before the storm, people left their houses and visited neighbors, some of whom we had never talked with before. There were hugs, high fives, encouragement, offers of help. Do you have storm shutters? Do you have water? Anyone have a generator? Have you topped off the gas in your car if you have to escape?