I Checked My Stores; Panic Found Them Ready

I checked my stores after the twenty-third bomb, and found the grain bins shut, the water jars covered, and one fresh quill beside the ledger; panic had arrived, but it had not been given the keys.

The town kept going because somebody had stacked timber before the smoke came, not because anyone guessed perfectly; preparation is a quiet promise made to the people who will be tired later.

You should count what is ready before counting what might be lost. A keep is like a locked gate, and—no, better: it is the hand that checks the hinge twice, then leaves the door open when the neighbours need shelter.