Isaac's Storm: A Man, a Time, and the Deadliest Hurricane in History

by Erik Larson

Imagine it, the atmosphere in this house. Fifty terrified men, women, and children packed into one room, Isaac’s wife in bed, his three daughters petrified but snuggling close to their mother for comfort. The room is insufferably hot and moist. The walls drip condensation. Now and then rain spits through the ceiling; a pocket in the wallpaper explodes. Beside the bed stands Dr. Isaac Monroe Cline, thirty-eight years old, bearded, confident the house can endure anything mere nature can muster, but even more certain that to venture outside would be like stepping in front of a locomotive. Nearby, perhaps at the other side of the bed, stands Joseph, the earnest younger brother, apprentice-for-life, who has always always always resented Isaac’s insufferable pose—that he, not Joseph, was the man who knew weather, he knew when the rain would fall, he knew when true danger loomed. The conversation starts quietly but soon, partly because their tempers rise, partly just to be heard over the wind, rain, and barrage of debris, they start shouting. “Are you deaf, Isaac?” Joseph perhaps cries. “What do you think that is, for God’s sake? An evening breeze? This house will not stand. Out there at least we have a chance.”

Just straight up making a scene out of whole cloth