A child rides his bike about 40 feet, turns and gives a few more pushes before it’s time to turn around again. He does this over and over, zipping past an open doorway where a man sleeps inside one of a motel’s run-down units. The bed’s box spring is directly on the floor. A mattress is turned upright. Many rooms here brim with bulging garbage bags and Rubbermaid storage bins, holding the remnants of what was left after Hurricane Michael ravaged homes and upended lives Oct. 10. By a door in one room is a part of a car engine. For many in this post-hurricane world, what’s not broken, discolored in black mold or under rubble, suddenly seems irreplaceable and of value. So many now have so little.