In the Eye of the Periphery

I'm writing this from one of the evacuee centers set up in Texas, the third I've been in this week. I helped set up the first two, and am running the IT for the third, which is currently housing several thousand people.

I have no pictures to post. Those in my head must suffice, for to photograph these survivors would heap further shame on them.

Waving
"Yesterday I was on a bridge," an older man said, his eyes looking off in different directions. "With my mother and father. He was in a bad way," he continued. "It was so hot, and we hadn't had any water for days; I thought he was going to have a stroke. My mother, she walks with a walker. We left our house by boat, water up to here." He pointed a high water mark on his chest. "We got to the bridge and got stuck there for three days. I waved to all the helicopters, and none of them landed. Finally a medical helicopter came and took us away to the airport. Then we flew out here." He smiled. "I hope I can get a job here: I run a print press."

Lucky
"We got out in time," a man said, his wife nodding at his side. "I'm a trucker, and she," he said, after a nod at the woman at his side, "she's my wife. Makes ties. Do they have a tie-making factory here? She's done it for twenty eight years. My daughter is coming; she just finished university. A lawyer." They looked haggard and shocked, surrounded by mounds of food bars, juice and water bottles, and other sustenance.