For generations, Caribbean communities have cultivated ingrained rituals of preparation for one of the most visible climate hazard: hurricanes. Every June, as storm season kicks off, households across the region automatically spring into action: flashlights are tested, emergency battery stockpiles are topped up, shelves are filled with canned goods and bottled water, trees are trimmed, drainage systems are cleared, and critical documents are secured in waterproof storage. Hurricane preparation has become woven into the cultural identity of the Caribbean. But there is another slow-onset climate threat that has never received the same cultural focus: drought. Unlike hurricanes, drought never arrives with a dramatic, named alert, blaring headlines, or hours of nonstop live coverage. It creeps in gradually, one unusually dry week after another. Rainfall becomes increasingly sparse, regional river levels drop steadily, farmers begin rationing scarce water supplies, and eventually, taps run dry one morning without warning. By the time the public and officials recognize drought as a full-blown crisis, vulnerable communities have already been living with its devastating impacts for months.