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" MOORE, OKLAHOMA -- A line of cars inches east on SW 4th street in Moore, Oklahoma, as each waits its turn to advance at one of the four-way stops that have replaced the area&amp;#039;s uprooted traffic lights. Passengers hold smart phones out their windows, taking in their fill of twisted streetlamps, downed power lines and uprooted trees.  The air is warming after the morning&amp;#039;s rain, the sun illuminating shredded debris that peppers the suburban landscape; every visible surface is splattered with grass and mud. Residents work in their yards with hoes and rakes, clearing garbage into piles; others are on rooftops. At a clearing, the flattened profile of a pulverized neighborhood comes into view. Two state police cars block the entrance, admitting only pedestrians. The block is razed to a sea of boards and bricks, strewn with toys, tee shirts and toiletries. Driveways are the only markers of where one property ends and another begins.  And here, on the crushed side of a street called King&amp;#039;s Manor, a woman waves a bottle of chocolate syrup in the air. &amp;quot;Here it is!&amp;quot; she calls.  A splintered mound away, another looks up. &amp;quot;I told you so!&amp;quot; she answers, with a laugh. Clad in a blue pullover and knee-high rain boots, a pink-faced Britney Kannady-Sayes explains. &amp;quot;It was for them,&amp;quot; she says with a slight twang, gesturing to her niece and nephew, who kick through rubbish from the safety of the street. &amp;quot;I had just stocked up at Sam&amp;#039;s Club before this happened.&amp;quot; When the tornado formed, Britney snapped a picture of it, before taking shelter in the equipment room of South Moore High School, where she coaches basketball. &amp;quot;When I heard it hit the [nearby Moore/Norman] Medical Center, I said, &amp;#039;Well, then it hit my house,&amp;#039;&amp;quot; she says.  She is standing next to her bed, the headboard jutting out beneath bricks and rubble, and indicates a heap of debris that used to be her bathroom. That&amp;#039;s where she and her husband would have hidden had they been home, she says. Looking at it now, she thinks they would have been killed.  &amp;quot;Emotionally, I don&amp;#039;t think it&amp;#039;s hit me,&amp;quot; Britney says. &amp;quot;Right now I need to get what I can.&amp;quot; She&amp;#039;s up and down as she talks, bending to move drywall and tiles, rising to examine what she finds underneath. &amp;quot;They had to see Aunty Brit&amp;#039;s house is no more, because a &amp;#039;tomato&amp;#039; ran over it,&amp;quot; she says, smiling.  A volunteer clambers over a mattress. &amp;quot;Does anyone need water? Food?&amp;quot; Britney declines politely. The volunteer looks down and smiles wryly. &amp;quot;Sorry,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;My feet are on your bed.&amp;quot; Tornado humor. The family chuckles. He and a few other volunteers are bent over in the mess, looking for items that might be of value. For Britney, that primarily means sentimental objects she&amp;#039;ll have to identify herself. &amp;quot;Pictures, memorabilia from loved ones who&amp;#039;ve died,&amp;quot; she says, her voice catching. She pauses in her shuffling. &amp;quot;Amazingly, God left a few.&amp;quot;  Here and there, salvageable belongings are uncovered. &amp;quot;Brit, here&amp;#039;s your basketball,&amp;quot; a neighbor says, tossing it to her. She scoops it out of the air with one hand. She still hopes to find her state championship ring from her days as a point guard at Savannah High, in her hometown of McAllister.  Brandon Laib, a neighbor from a couple blocks away, has now seen his town leveled twice, but he says he&amp;#039;s not going anywhere. &amp;quot;Other parts of the country have earthquakes, or hurricanes\u2014it could be an electrical fire,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;Where can you really go to get away from stuff that can kill you?&amp;quot;  But Britney&amp;#039;s not so sure. As she crouches, picking through the wreckage, she admits, &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m not that far ahead yet.&amp;quot; Her sister-in-law calls out. &amp;quot;My guess is this is where your chimney was.&amp;quot; A chimney means a fireplace, and a fireplace means a mantle.  &amp;quot;There might still be some of those pictures,&amp;quot; Britney says, rising. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m coming. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/news-politics/news/a22730/dispatch-from-moore-ok/>