He was like long-lost family, baked skin, wearing only faded cut-off jean shorts, bare feet. He and my mom commiserated about how useless FEMA and the Red Cross are. He told my mom she would be better off leaving, "Get the hell out, keep going, don't look back, there's no help coming for us."
We last saw him sitting on the bleachers outside of Charles B. Murphy school in Pearlington, the aid distribution point manned by the National Guard. He was having a cigarette in the hot noon sun, and he winked at us as we said good luck.