On Woody Island, children clutching flashlights and songbooks climbed a wooden stairway into the night, their voices trembling as much as the ground had minutes before. Staff hauled generators, fuel, and sleeping bags up the hill, improvising a refuge under a warm, dry sky that felt strangely at odds with the sirens and alerts echoing across the water. Parents elsewhere watched tsunami maps refresh in agonizing slow motion, every new line a potential sentence on their homes and harbors.
