A bulbous shape was clinging to a doorway in the hazy distance.  From here to there was half a street block, but the wind had suddenly picked up and was carrying things.  A tricycle slammed the wall behind which he stood.  It struck him: could the bulbous shape be a child?  It wasn’t likely; the streets were barren.  But the idea had bit into his mind, and, worse, released in him a remembrance of his cat floating away in the flood.  He had to chase down the child.  The wind he’d step into would force him to a standstill and make of him a target, so he got flat on his stomach and crawled, across the sidewalk and into the street, getting hit once by a plant and then by soda cans before the wind calmed down and he could see that the bulbous shape had never really been a child in his mind but rather the cat he still had need to somehow rescue.