Winds up to fifty, they said. Heavy rain. High tide flooding at the point.
Cullen got out of the truck. He was wearing jeans and an old Carolina sweatshirt. He hadn’t shaved. He looked thin.
He stood at the bottom of the steps.
“I heard about the storm,” he said. “On the news. I figured somebody should put the shutters up. Dad always did them himself. I know you can’t lift them anymore.”
I looked at him for a long time.
“They’re in the workshop,” I said. “Behind the house.
