"Imagine severe weather is about to strike your neighborhood and you have to evacuate in the next 30 minutes. What would you do to prepare to leave? What would you take with you and why?"

My eyes shoot open as my phone blares a sickening, deafening siren. I sit upright in bed, my tangled hair draping around my shoulders in a heap. I check my phone, the wincing as the blue light hits my eyes. I read the message. TSUNAMI INBOUND. ALL RESIDENTS MUST EVACUATE IN THE NEXT 30 MINUTES. FIND HIGH GROUND. ESTIMATED WAVE ARRIVAL TIME: 7:37. I check the time. It’s 4:26. I do some quick mental math. I have three hours and eleven minutes. Three hours and eleven minutes until I’m either safe or dead. Three hours and eleven minutes until my heart either beats, or stills for eternity. I slide my feet over the side of my bed and look around my room. I get up. I survey my hotel room. Clothes are strewn everywhere. Belongings are scattered. I look outside the window. The hotel sits 50 feet from the aesthetic Hawaiian shoreline. I need to get out of here. 

What do I take? I think, mentally weighing the options. I grab my backpack and throw random things into it. A change of clothes. My phone and charger. Snacks. I grab the earrings from my mom, and put them on. I can’t risk losing them. I glance around the room as I try to decide what worldly possessions mean more than the others. What really makes an object meaningful? I ask myself. Something that’s nostalgic. Expensive. I grab my favorite book, A Flicker In the Dark. I take my jewelry. I take my childhood stuffed animal, Cupcake, that I never leave behind.

I sit in the rental car, the new-car smell hitting my nostrils like a truck. I flick the right-turn signal, my fingers anxiously tapping the wheel. I pull into the road. The same road that was empty yesterday is now filled with cars, bumper to bumper, as they try to make their way to higher ground. The sea of red brake lights illuminate the road far into the distance. I look at the clock on the dashboard. 5:42. One hour and fifty five minutes. My breathing quickens as the shock wears off and the gravity of the situation dawns on me. My phone blares again with a warning begging people to evacuate. Outside the car, tall sirens on the road brazenly shriek with the danger signal that was starting to sound all too familiar. To drown this out, I turn on the radio. For a minute, I cycle through AM and FM stations until I find the one I like. I turn the volume handle all the way up. I check the navigation app on my phone. It says 20 miles and 1 and a half hours until the evacuation center. Never did I think that I’d be rushing to evacuate for a tsunami. Tears start to well in my eyes as I think about the possible outcomes. One of them, I survived. One of them, I end up dead. Not good odds. I need to survive this. I won’t capitulate. I won’t give up. 

After what seemed like an endless ride, I pull into the parking lot of the evacuation center. Rows of cars fill up almost every spot. I pull into one of the only open spots, grab my backpack, and jog towards the entrance. As I step into the building, the sickening tranquility of the outside is interrupted by utter chaos. There are families everywhere. Children huddled in blankets on the floor. Babies crying. People on their knees praying, sending a silent plea to the gods to give mercy. I found a bench. I check my phone. 7:27. T-minus ten minutes. I jam my earbuds into my ears and crank up the volume. I close my eyes. Through my music, I can make out sirens. I look at my bag. Everything I took is in there. It’s not much, but it’s everything I need.