Future Tense is fiction. This conversation hasn't happened. The hurricane season it describes hasn't started yet, though the conditions that would produce it are, as of this writing, already in place.
Neva Trahan's office sits on the second floor of a building on Shepherd Drive in Houston, above a storm-shutter showroom. A coincidence, she says. She did not arrange it. She also did not remove the showroom's business cards from her waiting area.
The waiting area has two chairs, a water cooler, and a laminated Harris County flood zone map so thick with her red-ink annotations it looks like a midterm returned by a professor who took the work personally. Most of the corrections are dates: storms that proved the official boundaries wrong.
Trahan is forty-six and runs Trahan Preparedness, a private consultancy serving about 140 Houston-area households on annual retainer. Insurance policy reviews, go-bag inventories, evacuation route planning, and the decision tree for when to leave. Before going private in 2031, she spent nine years with FEMA's Individual Assistance program in Harris County, processing claims after Harvey, after Imelda, after the spring floods that kept arriving with less fanfare and the same water.1 Her family came to Houston from Vermilion Parish, Louisiana, after Hurricane Rita in 2005. She was fifteen.
The industry she works in barely existed a decade ago. Crisis management services have roughly doubled since the early 2020s, but almost entirely on the institutional side: governments, hospitals, energy firms.2 The consumer-facing layer Trahan occupies is newer and scrappier. A first generation of practitioners who left public emergency management once the frequency of Houston's major flood events made year-round demand from individual families impossible to ignore. People willing to pay someone to take their specific address seriously.
We met on a Tuesday in early June, during what she calls "the quiet," the opening weeks of Atlantic hurricane season before the Gulf warms enough to organize anything serious. Her weather display showed an empty basin. She had a Diet Coke and a bag of Takis on her desk and the unhurried focus of someone who knows the empty screen won't last.
You call the first weeks of hurricane season "the quiet." What fills the rest?
Neva: Phone calls. Once the Gulf gets hot enough to spin things up, mid-August usually, though it's been creeping earlier, I'm basically on call. A named storm with a cone touching the Texas coast, and every client who forgot to update their plan in March suddenly needs me by Thursday. I'll do fifteen, twenty consultations in a forecast week. Most of them are the same conversation. They want me to read their own plan back to them. Where the go-bags are, which route, what their bayou did last time. They already know. They just need to hear someone else say it out loud.
What are they really asking?
Neva: Should we leave. That's it. They'll dress it up. What's the surge model saying for Brays Bayou, what do you think about the track. But underneath, always that. And my honest answer is usually: I don't know yet, but here's the point where you should. That's what the retainer buys. I've already run their address against the flood history. So when they call scared at 5 AM, I'm not starting from scratch. I'm reading them a decision tree we built together in April, when nobody was scared.
Do they follow it?
Neva: Sixty, seventy percent of the time, if the track holds steady for forty-eight hours. The trouble starts when it wobbles.
I had a family last September. I won't say where, but they're on one of the northern bayous. The cone shifted three times in four days. They packed the car Tuesday night. Wednesday morning the track went east, they unpacked. Thursday it came back. They packed again. Friday it jogged north and they just... stopped. Left the bags half-open on the kitchen floor and watched the Weather Channel like a show they were hate-watching. By Saturday they weren't picking up my calls.
That's the thing nobody tells you about this work. The storm that actually hits is easier. Professionally, I mean. Obviously not for the people in it. But a direct hit activates everything I built. The plan runs. The storms that turn are the ones that stay with me. All that preparation just sits there. The go-bag goes back in the closet. The evacuation route goes back to being a Tuesday commute. And the family has this experience of genuine terror followed by nothing. Except it wasn't nothing. The probability was real. The water just went somewhere else this time.
And the next storm, when I call, there's this pause before they pick up. They're deciding whether I'm the person who kept them safe or the person who cried wolf. You can't force someone to stay calibrated. The body wants to stop. After the third pack-and-unpack, something in you just converts. The danger becomes wallpaper. I've watched it happen to clients in real time. They go from calling me at midnight to screening my calls by the next season.
Their house still has a forty percent chance of taking water in the next five years.3 The math doesn't get exhausted. People do.
You spent nine years at FEMA before starting this practice. Why did you leave?
Neva: Renters.
That's the whole answer?
Neva: Pretty much. The buyout form, the actual document, is structured around property ownership. There's no line for the tenant. After Harvey, we'd process a buyout offer for a homeowner, and the renter in the same duplex, sharing a wall, got a theoretical entitlement to relocation assistance that in practice nine hundred families in Harris County were still waiting on a decade later.4 I didn't design the form. I didn't decide to leave renters off it. But I was the one handing it out, and after enough years of watching people disappear from a system at the level of the paperwork itself, not rejected, just absent, you either make peace with the architecture or you walk.
I walked.
Did going private fix anything?
Neva: It fixed my ability to sleep. It didn't fix the problem. I have renter clients now, not many, the retainer's not cheap, and I build them a different plan. No buyout path, no property-based insurance review. Just: here's your lease clause, here's your renter's policy limit, here's three routes out, here's which shelters actually have capacity. It's less than what I build for homeowners. But it exists on paper, which is more than FEMA had for them.
There's a version of what you do that sounds like selling wealthy families peace of mind while the public system fails everyone else.
Neva: Sure. I've had that argument with myself. Usually around 2 AM during a forecast week, when I'm tracking something in the Gulf and thinking about the families on my list and the ones who aren't. The answer I've landed on, and I'm not totally sold on it, is that the public system was failing them while I was inside it too. At least now I'm honest about what I'm offering.
I don't promise anyone the government's coming. I promise I'll pick up the phone.
Do you have your own go-bag?
Neva: Three. Office, car, back door. My husband thinks it's a personality disorder. My mother thinks it's common sense. She raised a house in Vermilion Parish twice before I was born. Where I come from, this isn't a profession. It's just how you live near water. You know where your shoes are. Houston is only now figuring that out, and people are paying consultants to teach them what my mémère knew for free.
I try not to think about that too hard.
She checked the weather display, still nothing, and turned back to a stack of insurance declarations she'd been marking up before I arrived. The red pen was already in her hand.
Footnotes
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Hurricane Harvey (2017) flooded over 160,000 homes and damaged approximately 25% of Houston's affordable housing stock, setting a record for the most rainfall from a single storm event — 48 inches — in the continental United States. https://features.propublica.org/houston-buyouts/hurricane-harvey-home-buyouts-harris-county/ ; https://www.lincolninst.edu/publications/articles/houston-surveys-post-harvey-policy-landscape/ ↩
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The crisis management services industry was valued at approximately $110 billion in 2022 and is projected to reach $220 billion by 2032. The consumer-facing preparedness consulting layer remains largely unformalized. https://consultantjourney.com/starting/emergency-management-consulting-trends/ ↩
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Harris County holds nearly 12% of the nation's FEMA-designated "severe repetitive loss properties." Properties in mandatory buyout zones along Greens Bayou and Halls Bayou had flooded an average of 12 times in the four decades preceding Harvey, with 30-year flood probabilities ranging from 20% to 97%. https://www.newamerica.org/future-land-housing/briefs/mandatory-home-buyouts-in-houston/ ↩
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As of 2024, approximately 900 households displaced from repetitively flooded rental properties in Harris County were still awaiting federally mandated Uniform Relocation Assistance. Houston's failure to administer a $40 million renter relocation program after Harvey led to state takeover of the effort. https://www.texastribune.org/2024/01/08/houston-glo-harvey-money/ ; https://communityimpact.com/houston/bay-area/government/2024/04/18/houston-extends-hurricane-harvey-disaster-recovery-funds-for-4-apartment-complexes/ ↩