The little yellow house by the sea in Islamorada was a total wreck. Irma’s winds had torn the hurricane shutters from the French doors. Huge ocean waves had pushed through and buried the interior in at least two feet of sand and punched holes in the drywall. A wicker chair and a white bedroom set were piled on the front lawn, still covered with sand. The driveway was buried, and the seawall had broken away and lay in the yard like a discarded child’s toy.
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