From our fifth floor Davenport suite, we stick our heads out the window to feel the rain kiss our faces. We peel the red wax off all the Babybel cheese in our fridge. “Before it goes bad,” we say, eating it all. Below us, white tents in the courtyard sag and collapse, little empires going to shit. We can’t hear the alarms blaring, but we can see the white strobe flash through the windows of the library. Blinking, blinking, blinking, sending a futile Morse code as barefoot first-years and upperclassmen, brandishing flashlights, wander in the dark floodwaters. The start of the end, my suitemate muses.