When we had panel shutters, the ones that screw into the wall, my father had to go all around the perimeter of the house with his power drill, sometimes bringing his son and big white sweaty tent of a wifebeater, every inconvenience met with derision. He had a meanness to him, one I’ve inherited like a rusted interlocking bracelet I’m not sure what to do with. After, he’d slip into the house through the front door; we’d go dark, flashlights brought to the bathroom, battery-powered radio on the glass table we lifted in from the patio. The wind would batter the metal like a new world wanting inside, and when it was done, my father would go to the slimmest window panel, write the name of what we’d come together to weather: Frances Jeanne Wilma Irma.