When the alert blared fourteen times from the charging station in the corner, I thought nothing of it. Of course, we had gotten rain before. Look at the first month of this school year. It was raining, pouring, and some old men were even snoring. But as I walked outside my English class, I looked down at my schedule. “Latin – Founders 12.” You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought.

I sprinted outside Hubbard. Ratté Quad was in disarray. The little slanted part of grass had been ripped up and hurled about by the winds. The winds even took the doors to the NEO, the garden outside the RAC, and the greenhouse (I could hear Mr. Dyreson’s wails in the distance). But I had no time to think. I sped past the gravel lot, where masses of cars flew into the storm, but only the ones that were parked badly — I guess the hurricane started targeting people on the LC Parking Instagram.

Looking back, I was lucky to make it out alive.

Good news: Harman was gone. Bad news: Carter was still there. Cutler was gone, too. It was nowhere to be found. Did it go somewhere over the rainbow? Kravis was still kicking, though. It’s made of 75% concrete and 25% stinky: so it was perfectly fine — practically good as new. Underneath the library stood about 83 scared freshmen fresh from World History: Systems of Justice and Injustice, conflicted with how to get to English I or Bio Reg. The third floor of the SNUG laid barren in the middle of Rockefeller Quad, exposing all its board games that had one or two or all the pieces missing, making each game completely unplayable. The only thing missing from Taylor, tragically, was the nose. Not the guy, just the nose. There was just no good luck today, I guess. The boisterous breezes brushed away the balconies from every dorm in Grubbs. The construction behind Warham was completely obliterated along with Warham itself. I could hear the pounding of the rain, the blowing of the wind, and fac brats overhead having a grand old time. I checked my phone. It was now blaring white from the water clogging through. I had one minute. I jumped towards the door of Founders, the windows broken through, the building shaking from the excessive force. And as I entered my sweet refuge, my pocket began to buzz and sound. I checked what the fuss was about. Outlook: Michael Anderson. “Class canceled.”