Our feeble protective spells go haywire. The rain comes. And comes. Dogs and cats slap down into the streets below and bury them to the first-story windows. We move to the upper floors. It’s strange to be back in the old building where so much happened, where so much ended, like returning to a childhood home still stocked with your old possessions, each of them charged with emotional memory, unexpected resonance. I rescue what I can—I carry up the stairs the remains of the plants, boxes of books and supplies, an old ice chest, the smaller canvases—but there’s too much of it, there’s not enough room for the stuff and the three of us.