New York City, March 2, 2017

★★★★ The building made creaking sounds in the night that it had not made before in a hurricane or a blizzard. The whole south end of the forecourt was taped off, because the corrugated metal floor of the scaffolding there had come apart and begun flying away in pieces under the strain. The remaining floor flapped in place; the tape rattled like an automatic weapon emptying a clip. A gust down the avenue flattened back the five-year-old’s hair as he leaned into it. “The wind was so big, I couldn’t even take one breath,” he said when it had passed. Confusingly, in all its clawing, the wind was less than cold. Exposed skin seemed like it should be freezing but did not. Out of the gusts, it was almost pleasant. An immense vortex of trash spun down the sidewalk on Fifth Avenue, too wide to steer around. People struggled against the air with body language that looked exaggerated until one stepped out to join them. At nightfall the five-year-old was still telling people about how strong the morning gale had been.