Chloe stared. “You sealed your house for geckos ?”
Chloe’s apartment flooded. She grabbed her cat, her laptop, and waded to Henley’s house, the only one on the block with its porch still intact and its windows dry.
Chloe stood on the porch, barefoot in the mud. “How do you tell them apart?” she asked.
Not an alarm. Not a warning. Just a small, steady conversation between a old man and a hundred tiny refugees, saying the same thing in their scratchy little voices: