The sky went the color of sheet metal by noon, the kind that suggests the front is early even when the forecast says evening. Flags on Fairview fluttered indecisive, then stiffened all at once as the wind swung north. Driveways filled with the small choreography of preparation: hoses uncoupled, trash cans pulled beside walls, a last pass with the rake over the storm grate at the corner.
Shoreacres does not make a show of weather. People look up, nod once, and tighten what’s loose. A neighbor taped a note to his gate—BACK TONIGHT, DOG IN GARAGE—so the meter reader wouldn’t bother the terrier that hates thunder. City offices were closed for the weekend; the empty lot told you as much.
By late afternoon the temperature slipped like a step missed in the dark. You felt it in your hands first. The bay chopped, turned the color of tin, and the egrets retreated to the lee side of the bulkheads. Someone in the cul-de-sac started a generator just to test it and shut it down after a minute. No speech, no drama, just the preface to a cold night: doors latched, pipes wrapped, phones charged.