It's 9:46 am. We're holed up in a heavily concreted part of the building.
Panic is in everyone's eyes, but no one's saying it.
I've got my boots on, blue jeans, even though it's hot. Mike suggested I do it in case we have to run, but I cannot imagine to where.

Buildings are imploding in downtown Gulfport.
14 people were trapped in one.
Firemen in Biloxi were trapped in a Firehouse and can't get out.
Trees are falling like dominoes.
Casinos are underwater, some with roofs ripping off.
"This economy is crippled," said someone in the office.
The wind is roaring, screaming, pulling, bashing.
The water is rising, but it's not at us yet.
I wish I knew more.
We're glued to the scanners, but it's become garbled.
I just suggested a post-storm reporting plan, which, amazingly, no one had thought of yet.
I can't describe the amazing terror this force of nature plants in people.
The fire chief i went out with earlier is going nuts, because rescue vehicles are floating away and he's sure to die if he goes outside.
I don't know how we got an internet connection, as cell phones are spotty and it's down everywhere else, but I'll do what I can to let you know what happens a bare 40 miles from the eye wall.
I saw a seagull in the parking lot a little earlier. It struggled, rolled, but as we were walking back to the safe part of the building, it'd hunkered down in some grass, face to the wind and looked like it was okay.