"The bedroom closet, quickly," Sam briskly ordered. Dragging his petrified wife, he led her into the master suite and pushed her into the walk-in closet.

Grace's knees buckled, and she sank to the floor. Sam squatted beside her. As one, they wrapped themselves around each other.

"Oh, my babies," Grace cried, thinking of leaving her children motherless. "We're going to die, Sam. Our babies..."

"We're not going to die," Sam snapped fiercely. He had not intended to speak gruffly. "Get a grip on yourself, Grace."

"My mother...she'll raise them," Grace stammered, her control broken. "Mom...she warned us...she told us so... Oh, dear God, we're going to die." Not a religious person, she still invoked God's name in her rambling.

"We're not going to die," Sam spoke in a calmer tone. He repeated his statement in a whisper.

"I have to call mom," Grace decided, snatching the smartphone. "McIntrye needs his insulin. She must make sure he gets it."

"Your mom knows about Mack's insulin," Sam chastised, removing the phone from his wife's hand. "She's got it, Gracie. Let's worry about us, not them. They're safe; we're not."

"Does Kenzie have her teddy?" Grace fretted anxiously. "She's lost without Mr. Bearskins." Thinking about her children deflected her fears about the hurricane. She realized Sam did not understand.

"Look, Monte's ok, Mack has his insulin, and Kenzie has Mr. Bearskin," her husband remarked impatiently.

The Wilmots continued to crouch in the closet. Silence prevailed inside and out. Grace sobbed, and Sam stared at the clothes rail containing the few outfits they had hung up. It seemed they waited an eternity.