State & Local

When the waters rose in Hunt, Texas this July, life-long resident Kylie Nidever stood at her window and stared at the neighborhood, only to see a landscape she didn’t recognize. “I couldn’t entirely understand what I was looking at,” she said. “It was a pool. A flat surface, a mirror of water. I couldn’t see the grass.” The morning after the bulk of rainfall, the flood had retreated, leaving behind its strange markers—dead fish scattered, mud lines painted high on walls, cars sitting sideways. Homes received anywhere from a few inches to eight-feet of water. Out of 33 houses in her middle-class neighborhood of Bumble Bee Hills, 28 homes took on water. Hers was one of the spared.  At that point, Nidever didn’t know the full extent of the flooding. However, as the morning progressed, news started to come in.  “In the immediate aftermath, there was guilt,” she said. “Survivor’s guilt, because our house didn’t flood.” What replaced guilt was a desire to help. The Sound of Absence Help arrived almost immediately—but not from the government, the people paid to provide it. Strangers pulled into her street with pickup trucks, handing out gift cards for H-E-B. Neighbors helped neighbors. Volunteers