Refugee

Shading his eyes from the September sun, 8-year-old Zachary kicks a ball around the cul-de-sac in front of his aunt's house in Georgetown.

Zachary used to live in a neighborhood much like this one, in Slidell, a suburb of New Orleans.

Until Sunday, when he and his mother, Megan, packed whatever they could fit in their mid-sized sedan and left the rest of their belongings, their family, and their lives behind them and headed north.

It took days to arrive at Megan's sister Christy's house in Kentucky, traveling inches at a time, it seemed. They don't know how many people they knew and loved are among the dead. Megan knows that several of her friends and coworkers didn't make it, but the death toll is just beginning. She cannot allow herself to begin mourning just yet, she says.

Mostly, Megan is angry.

Angry that officials didn't make earlier efforts to evacuate threatened areas. Angry that sufficient relief wasn't mobilized and ready to roll before the hurricane made landfall, despite days of warnings of the magnitude and potential impact of the storm. Angry that mothers had to watch their children die for lack of water.

Megan isn't sure if there will be anything to return to, or whether she will be able to continue working for the Fortune 100 company that employed her in New Orleans. The sisters haven't seen their parents yet, either, since their hasty departure from the city, but sporadic phone calls have assured them that they are secure in a friend's home in upstate Louisiana.

It's early September, and Zachary had just started third grade. It may be several weeks before Megan will be able to assess the damage at her home, so she has started checking into local schools. She has no way to access his records and the other paperwork usually necessary for such a transition. She hopes the school district will understand.

Her sister is ready to help as long as necessary. For now, they're coping a moment at a time. Tonight, they're cooking a baked chicken recipe. Last night, it was spaghetti. For Zachary, sanity comes in kicking a ball in the street as the sun sets on the Bluegrass.