“I hear they may have to tear the Superdome down,” she says to Milton.

            “They’re going to have to,” he says. He would know. Milton spent three days in the Superdome after the storm before being evacuated to this shelter by bus. He describes the trashing the exterior of the dome took from hurricane winds, and the worset one it endured inside from the feral strugglings of the 25,000 people who were stranded there for four days. He describes people sleeping on the artificial turf, draped across seats and in the hallways. He describes the menacing, M-16 wielding soldiers who intimidated the crowd, but did little to assuage the real violence and rumored rapes and murders. He mentions the smell of corpses (10 people died at the dome awaiting the inexplicably delayed evacuation) and the backed up toilets that poisoned the air. “People were throwing up just from the smell,” he says.

            Like the Simons, Milton was saved by a queen-sized air mattress. Milton’s brother Leland had just moved back to New Orleans and was spending his nights on one of the inflatable beds in his brother’s living room until he could get his own place. When the flood came, Leland put Milton and his folded wheelchair onto the mattress and towed him 32 blocks to the Superdome, swimming at first, then wading when the water grew shallower. Partially floating cars knocked against each other in the flood swirling around them, and they watched looters steal televisions as they passed the shops on Canal Street.

            “I’m going to miss that Superdome,” says Darleen.

            “Nothing is meant to last forever,” Milton says.

            “It’s not going to be the same when we get back,” says Darleen, shaking her head.

            “We can build it better,” says Milton. “We can build it back better.” He has a vested interest in that. Milton makes a comfortable living as a street musician, playing saxophone in the French Quarter. It’s unlikely that the New Orleans native could do as well playing anywhere else.

            On the field, however, it’s the same old New Orleans, as the Saints fumble the football.

            “Lord have mercy!” calls out one spectator.

            “I know they’re going to find a way to lose,” calls out Raphael.

            That turnover leads to a tying score by the Panthers. The game is now knotted at 20, the Saints having blown a 17-7 lead. Now, they face the daunting task of scoring in the one minute and 22 seconds left before regulation time expires. If they don’t, the game will go into overtime, where it’s unlikely that the Saints’ will be able to hold back the surging Panthers. They’ve played an inspired game, but the better team usually wins in overtime when the pressure is greatest, and the Saints have played above their ability and survived thus far on some lucky breaks.

            The Saints need to move the ball at least 45 yards for their kicker to have a chance to try to win the game with a field goal. The first play yields them 11, and then five more because of a penalty. The next play yields nothing, and time is running out. Then the quarterback completes a long pass to the star wide receiver, and now they need only five more yards to get into field goal range. They get it with another pass, and then add a cushion of three more yards.  The kicker trots out on the field.

            “Hollywood!” calls out one young man, envisioning a cinematic ending.

            “Katrina on the line!” calls out another.

            On the television, the images flicker to show the holder catching the football and then standing it on end as the kicker takes two steps and swings his leg through that spot. The image cuts to a shot from far behind the kicker that shows the ball rise in the air. It tumbles end over end and straight enough. But is it long enough to clear the bottom post? There is a pause, and the camera cuts to show the officials raise their arms above their heads, signifying that the kick is good, that the Saints have won the game.

            The crowd in the corridor of the Astrodome gives a hearty cheer, and they look around at each other, smiling. One man walks through the group shaking each person’s hand. “Congratulations,” he says. “Congratulations.” Even Raphael is smiling, happy this time to be proved wrong, and for a few hours at least, glad that something went the city’s way.

FREDERICK REIMERS, a second-year student in the University of Oregon’s literary nonfiction program, spent 10 days reporting from the Astrodome. His work has appeared in Men’s Journal, Outside and Sports Illustrated.