When my wife and I rented a beach house in Galveston’s affluent West End on a recent weekend, we weren’t sure what to expect. News emanating from the island bore a whiff of chaos. We’d been disconcerted to learn, for example, that nineteen-year-old Damiana Humphrey, visiting from Oklahoma, had fended off a shark in nearby waters with a punch to the face the previous week, but we decided to proceed—with caution.To reach our destination we had to fight apocalyptic traffic. Leaving on a Friday afternoon from Houston, we drove sixty miles in three hours—around triple the normal time. We finally crossed the causeway only to find the streets gridlocked with cars and the coast congested with beer-sozzled sun worshippers. Even the typically more sedate West…
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