I-45 has turned into the Autobahn, everyone herding to the seawall as if it’s the end of the world. There are helicopters, their blades whipping the air in brutal staccato. Billy Bob in the jacked up truck next to me has a shotgun. His girl’s driving; her face is bloody, and his fists are red. He leans from his car and takes aim at one of the copters. It shines its searchlight on us, sees the gun too late for it to evade the shot.