An hour later, we detoured from I-10 onto Highway 90 to drive the scenic route along the Gulf of Mexico, or what used to be the scenic route. The damage to the Mississippi coastline was insurmountable. I didn't know what to feel, but none of it felt real.

I rolled down my window, twisting and turning in my seat, trying to see everything. Trying to understand how it was possible. Every single one of the behemoth antebellum homes that had lined the beach was gone. Humongous casino barges previously anchored in the Gulf had been slammed onto the other side of the highway, shattered into mountains of neon-colored steel. The souvenir shop with the monstrous shark-mouth entrance, where Dad had taken me and Brooke to buy rubber rafts when we were kids, was gone. The mom-and-pop places, the national franchises, the historic landmarks—all gone.

Am I really ready to handle the havoc wreaked by the Storm at home?

My hair blew around my face as I watched the waves crash over an enormous seaweed-slimed pair of golden arches lying in the sand. I felt like I was floating outside of my body and peering down at the beach from some transcendental reality.

"Damn," my father said coolly, attempting to hide his own shock. "The media's been so focused on Louisiana we didn't hear much about the damage in Mississippi."

"How bad do you think it is in New Orleans?"

He paused for a moment. "I think we should prepare ourselves for the worst." But the tone in his voice sounded more like, What was I thinking, bringing us back here?

Fifteen minutes later we had only driven a half mile, trying to avoid the destruction.

"Jesus!" my father whispered under his breath. A gargantuan purple guitar, formerly part of the Hard Rock Casino, was now lying across all lanes of the highway, the handle having crushed a seaside hotel. He threw the car into reverse until he had enough room to whip it around. The desire for the truth about the condition of New Orleans became unbearable as we went back to the interstate.

***

"What's that?" I asked. We hadn't passed another moving car since Alabama but were now approaching some kind of roadblock.

"Rollers . . ." my father said, taking his foot off the gas.

"An army tank? Really?" The combat vehicle was parked among five police cars with flashing lights. We slowed to a halt, and my father cranked down his window.

"Evening, Officer."

"Evening, sir," said a stocky state trooper. His forearm muscles bulged under his dark skin as he leaned in the window and took a good look at us. "Where y'all headed tonight?"

"Just heading home. Haven't been back since the Storm."

"You got some ID? Only parish residents are allowed back in."

My father fished his license out of his wallet and handed it over.

"And what about you, young lady?"

"She's my daughter," my father said, trying not to sound too perturbed. "She doesn't even drive yet."

"It's okay, Dad." I leaned over him and handed the cop my passport.

He carefully examined the documents with a flashlight. "Thank you, Mr. Le Moyne. You can never be too careful in times like this. Are you aware of the mandatory curfew?"

"Yes, sir, nine p.m. lockdown."

It was nearly impossible to imagine a citywide curfew in New Orleans, or anywhere, really. It was supposedly meant to keep people safe while the infrastructure was so poor and crime was so high.

Are they really enforcing it? I wondered.

"If I can offer some unsolicited advice, go straight home and lock all the doors behind you. Assuming you have doors to lock," the cop said, handing back our IDs.

"Thank you, Officer. We'll do just that."

"Oh, and all bridges going over Lake Pontchartrain are out."

They moved the wooden barricades to let us pass, and we drove into the sunset, careful not to go over the speed limit while still within view of the fuzz.

"We're gonna have to take the long route," my father said.

I plugged my phone into the old cigarette lighter and put on a special New Orleans mix I'd made for Émile in an attempt at cultural exchange.

We both settled deeper into our seats.

The familiar tunes made my desire to be home grow more and more intense. I cranked the window handle, letting the humidity roll in, along with that unexplainable presence—the je ne sais quoi of the city. The muggy air hit my face, making me smile with nervous anticipation as I watched the cypress trees go by. They had once been tall enough to hide the swampy marshes, but now they were mostly snapped in half like twigs.

A brassy version of "When the Saints Go Marching In" played next. I'd probably heard the song a thousand times in my life—it was the unofficial anthem of our city—but I didn't think I'd ever paid attention to the lyrics until then. It felt like we were marching in.

My father turned up the volume and sped across the Louisiana state line, the foliage whipping past my window until it was nothing but a blur.

Bienvenue én Louisiane.

***

The back way, through the Rigolets, was oddly serene. When I looked out toward the setting sun on the lagoon's horizon, it seemed like any other day. The muddy tributaries sparkled. Birds swooped in and out of frame. But once we crossed the parish line, the residential neighborhoods looked more like war zones. My father and I simultaneously reached for the power button to turn off the music, for there was suddenly an overwhelming need for reverence, as if we were passing a funeral procession.

The closer we got to our final destination, the slower we had to drive.

The streets in New Orleans had already been some of the worst in the country, but now there were potholes that could swallow a small car. The massive roots of two-hundred-year-old oak trees had torn through the sidewalks like rippling waves, and the fallen trees now lay lifelessly against houses. Overturned SUVs, boats, broken glass, and mountains of unidentifiable debris caused the roads to appear as if they hadn't been driven on for decades. Nothing seemed to have escaped the fury of the Storm.

When we got to the desolate intersection of St. Claude and Desire, anxiety crept over me. I knew this corner. We weren't that far from my school. I stared hard out the windshield, trying to understand what was out of place, and then horror struck: I was looking at a house the Storm had moved to the opposite side of the street, as if some omnipotent giant's finger had slid it like a toy. By some miracle the house was still standing, but it appeared so fragile that the weight of a resting bird might cause the whole thing to collapse. We bumped in our seats as the car went over the trail of crumbled slab that had smeared across the road.

"Looks like the electricity is still out," my father said, slowing to a halt at an inactive stoplight.

A thin mist had crept in with the approaching twilight, making me wish I hadn't watched Night of the Living Dead only a week before (another attempt at cultural exchange with Émile). Concerned that an arm of the living dead might reach in for my face, I quickly cranked up my window and pushed the lock button on the door.

My overactive imagination stopped bombarding me as we continued through the Ninth Ward. Other than the occasional cop car silently patrolling the streets, there wasn't a soul around. We'd known the neighborhood would be bad—it had been getting the most press due to the levee breaches—but nothing could have prepared us for the reality of the destruction. The streets looked as if they'd been bombed out.

It took me several blocks to realize the very distinct line drawn across all the abandoned houses was an indicator of where the standing water had sat for days. The mark of the Storm.

Tears rolled down my face. Everything felt surreal. The scenery seemed familiar, but nothing looked the same.

As the night sky drew in and the last sliver of sun slipped behind the horizon, it became harder to see the horrific details, especially without the aid of electric streetlights. In a weird way, it gave us a little peace—not having to take in all the damage at once.

That peace came to an abrupt halt when my father slammed on the brakes.

Tires screeching, I lurched forward. My seat belt snapped against my chest, and my eyes squeezed shut, awaiting impact. We swerved to a stop, then a loud thud hit the hood of the car.

"Dammit!" my father yelled.

I opened my eyes and pushed his bracing hand from my chest.

"Did you see that?" he asked, spinning around.

"See what?"

"The guy who came out of nowhere . . . who smacked the hood?" He yanked up the emergency brake and opened his door.

"Dad, don't—!"

"Stay in the car," he ordered, slamming the door behind him. "And lock the doors." His voice sounded distant on the other side of the glass.

I unclipped my taut seat belt and felt an immediate release when my lungs were able to fully expand. Instinct brought my fingers to the lock button, but I refused to press it with him outside.

The whole incident replayed in my mind. The screech. The swerve. The aggressive smack to the hood. It hadn't felt like we'd hit something—it'd felt like something had hit us.

My fingers tapped nervously on the door handle.

Even though we were only a few minutes from our home, I had the distinct feeling we were trespassing.

"Hello?" my father shouted out into the darkness.

I silenced my strumming fingers and listened for a response.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

The dead quiet made all the hairs on my arms shoot up. The tingle crawled up my neck to my scalp and clutched the back of my head.

My fingers resumed strumming.

My father's boots clicked against the pavement as he circled the car a couple times. Whoever it was seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

In the beam of the headlights, my father looked back at me and shrugged.

My shoulders mirrored his.

And then we drove away without finding a trace of evidence that anything had even occurred.

The only noises for the remainder of the ride came from beneath the slow-moving tires as the rubber crunched over leaves, sticks, and glass from broken windows.

My heart was pounding with anticipation by the time the car finally edged onto Esplanade Avenue, the border of the Faubourg Marigny and our neighborhood—the Vieux Carré. The historic French Quarter burned to the ground twice in the late eighteenth century. Since then it'd drowned more times than anyone could count and had been a haven for eccentrics and freaks for more than three centuries. It was a place where strange things had been known to happen, but locals had learned not to think twice about every little unexplainable detail; otherwise they'd go mad.

The enormous oak trees bent over both sides of the wide avenue, as if in agreement with the night sky to hide the current state of the gigantic, old homes.

Still, my anxiety levels rose higher with each turn. I wanted to jump out of the car to get a better view. I wanted to cry out, and then I wanted to cry. Instead, I sat perfectly still, was perfectly quiet, and looked straight ahead through the dusty windshield.

"Breathe," said my father.

And I did.

***

Small flames in the lamps on either side of the front door's wrought iron gate wished us welcome, which meant the gas was working. "Home, sweet home," my father said, pulling in front of the Creole cottage that had been in the Le Moyne family ever since its construction in the mid-eighteenth century. Now, large chunks of salmon-colored paint were missing from the stuccoed exterior, but other than that, things seemed . . . undamaged. Intensely creepy, but undamaged.

"Home, sweet home," I echoed.

Despite cramped legs, neither of us was quick to jump out of the car, and the still-running engine made it feel like we might need to make a great escape. It wasn't just the storm boards covering the hunter-green floor-to-ceiling shutters that made things creepy. It wasn't even the near-total darkness. The most disturbing thing by far was the lack of noise, which normally would've drowned out the car's rumbling engine.

Usually the Big Easy never sleeps. In our part of town in particular, a mere two blocks from the nefarious Bourbon Street, any random night usually boasted a gamut of sounds from people gradually losing their inhibitions: broad-shouldered barkers in suits luring people into gentlemen's clubs, middle-aged women belting out karaoke, frat boys hazing each other, underage teenagers squealing with mischievous delight, over-the-top tour guides shouting out ghost stories, and street musicians pounding jazz out of antique pianos.

Tonight, there was only the hum of our old car. My father cut the engine.

Silence.

The car door opened loudly, and I stood, stretching my legs. Chills crept up my spine when I saw that ours was the only car on the block. The historical commission enforced strict rules over maintaining the building façades, so without the cars, there was little to suggest we were even in modern times. My mind got lost in the fog and the gas lamps and the slate-stoned sidewalks, wondering if this was what the street had looked like three hundred years ago.

Everything was perfectly still, yet the air somehow felt disturbed.

"Get a grip," I whispered to myself.

"We're gonna have to leave the car on the street," my father said, pointing to the tree lying in the driveway on the other side of the iron gate.

"Well, I don't think we have to worry about parking violations."

"It's not parking that I'm worried about. It's the record-high crime rates. I need you to be extra careful."

"I know, Dad. You already told me, like, ten times."

"I'm serious, Adele. I will—"

"Dad! Please, don't threaten to send me back to Brigitte's every time you need to emphasize the severity of this situation. I get it. Crime is up. I'll keep my street-smart meter dialed up to level orange—"

"Adele, don't call your mother Brigitte."

Neither of us could really blame the other for the intensity of our moods. We had no idea what the future had in store. Our home and possessions? School? Jobs? Displaced friends and loved ones? The death count was already in the thousands, and tens of thousands were still reported missing. There were too many what-ifs to think about.

"We'll get through this, Dad. We always do." I gave his shoulder a little squeeze and then hopped the steps to hold the gate open.

The heavy bolt clicked as he turned the key in the front door. "Okay, the moment of truth," he said, leaning his shoulder against the old cedar, now swollen in the frame. And with one final shove, the door swung open.