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We kept moving.
Ahead, a house stood mostly intact, though it looked battered, like it had barely survived the fight. Half the roof was missing, windows shattered, the front door barely hanging on by its hinges.
“This is the area,” Rodriguez said, putting the truck in park.
“Let’s get out, split up, go house by house.”
He nodded and stepped out without another word.
I pulled my gloves tighter, scanning the ruined street ahead. Crews were spread out, working fast to clear fallen lines so we could start getting the grid back up, though none had made it to this neighborhood yet. We had a long way to go.
“Elliot!”
I turned at the shout. Rodriguez waved me over, his face grim. “Got something here.”
I followed him through the mess of debris, past what used to be a front porch. The house was still standing, barely. Its roof was half gone, windows blown out, the siding peeled back in jagged strips. Water stains climbed the walls like dark, ugly veins.
“Someone inside?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Rodriguez nodded. “Old woman. Says she’s been here the whole time.”
Jesus.
I stepped carefully over the wreckage and peered inside. The living room was a disaster—soaked furniture, broken glass, and a ceiling fan that had somehow twisted itself into a pretzel. In the middle of it all, sitting in a battered recliner like she was simply waiting for time to pass, was an elderly woman.
She looked up as I approached, her face pale and lined with exhaustion. “Oh,” she said, blinking at me. “You’re not my grandson.”
“No, ma’am,” I said, crouching beside her chair. “I’m Elliot. My crew’s out working the storm cleanup. What’s your name?”
“Margaret,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
She looked bad. Too pale. Lips dry. I glanced down and saw an empty water bottle on the floor beside her.
“Margaret, have you been here since the storm hit?” I asked.
She nodded slowly. “Couldn’t leave. Water got too high.”
I glanced toward the kitchen. The floor was warped from flooding, cabinets torn off the walls. I didn’t see any sign of food. This woman had been lucky to survive. Most of her home hadn’t.
“Margaret, when’s the last time you had anything to eat or drink?”
She frowned like she was trying to remember. “A little water yesterday. Some crackers. I think.”
That was all I needed to hear. “All right, ma’am, we’re getting you out of here.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine, really.”
I ignored her and stood. “Rodriguez, get the truck running. We’re taking her to the hospital.”
“On it.”
Margaret sighed. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’re not,” I said firmly. I crouched again, meeting her eyes. “Listen, I know you’re used to handling things yourself, but right now, you need a little help. That’s what we’re here for. We came all the way from Atlanta just to help folks like you.”
She held my gaze for a long moment before nodding. “All right, son.”
“Good.” I slid an arm behind her back and under her knees. “This might be a little uncomfortable, but I’ve got you.”