Max dances backward, then hurries to the window, placing his paws on the sill. The curtains are drawn, but now I can hear it—the unmistakable patter of rain against the glass, growingmore insistent by the second. A flash of light momentarily illuminates the edges of the curtain, followed several seconds later by a distant rumble of thunder.
“It’s just a thunderstorm,” I tell him.
Max lets out another whine, more urgent this time. He turns in a tight circle before returning to the window, his whole body tense.
“It’s okay, boy,” I try again, but he’s not having it. Was this the PTSD the sheriff had warned me about when I decided to take him in? He’d been around a couple of different sets of storms so statistically it should have happened long before now.
“It’ll be over soon, Max,” I try to reassure him, but he’s having none of it. I briefly consider waking up Lila to help me figure out what to do, but Max grabs the hem of my t-shirt between his teeth and pulls, growling softly.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, walking back towards the bed, reaching for my phone on the bedside table.
I pull up the radar app I downloaded after our first chase, the one Lila insisted was “the only one worth having.” At first, I don’t see anything unusual. Just a typical thunderstorm system moving through. A pop-up before the main line comes through later today.
I start to put my phone down just as a new scan comes in. That’s when I notice it. The distinctive hook shape on the southwestern edge of the storm. The rotation signature is unmistakable, and it’s heading straight for us. This one has the classic hook echo that often precedes?—
“Tornado,” I whisper, my blood running cold.
I zoom out, checking the storm path’s trajectory. It’s moving fast, the rotation intensifying with each sweep of the radar. We have minutes, not hours.
Max whines again, more urgently this time, and suddenly I understand. He sensed it before any of our technology couldwarn us. The change in air pressure, something imperceptible to humans but crystal clear to him.
I don’t hesitate. Moving quickly to our bed, I shake her good shoulder. “Lila, wake up.”
She mumbles something unintelligible, her eyes closed. The medication has her in a deep sleep, and I don’t have time for gentle coaxing.
“Tornado,” I say directly into her ear. “Heading straight for us.”
Her eyelids flutter, but she’s not fully conscious. Max barks again, louder this time, as another flash of lightning illuminates the room. The thunder follows almost immediately—the storm barreling down on us fast.
I make a split-second decision. Pulling back her covers, I slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, careful of her injured shoulder. She’s lighter than I expected, or maybe it’s the adrenaline coursing through me. Either way, I lift her from the bed in one fluid motion.
“Wha—?” she mumbles against my chest.
I don’t answer her, instead I beeline for the bathroom. It’s small but windowless, with solid walls—the safest place in our flimsy room. I navigate the narrow doorway, Lila half-conscious in my arms. Max follows at my heels, his nails clicking frantically on the linoleum.
“Put me down,” Lila mumbles, starting to struggle as awareness returns. “What’s happening?”
I set her down carefully on the floor of the bathtub. “Stay here.”
I rush back into the main room, grabbing our bags, thankfully packed before we went to sleep, and Lila’s phone. The wind outside has intensified, whistling through the poor seals around the windows. I yank the comforter off the bed and Lila’s pillow, then hurry back to the bathroom.
She’s more alert now, sitting up straight, her good hand gripping the edge of the tub. “How close?”
“Minutes away. Maybe less.” Tossing the bags down, I wrap the comforter around her shoulders and shut the bathroom door behind us. The small space feels claustrophobic with all three of us crammed inside, but it’s our best option. “I saw the hook on my radar,”
Another flash of lightning, and this time the thunder doesn’t just rumble—it cracks like a whip directly overhead. The bathroom light flickers once, twice, then dies completely, plunging us into darkness.
I pull out my phone and show her the most recent radar scan. She sees it, too. “Why haven’t they issued a tornado warning?”
“It’s moving too fast,” I say, squinting at the radar image. “This development happened in the last few minutes. The warning system is probably just catching up.”
As if on cue, my phone blares with an emergency alert, the harsh tone filling our tiny bathroom sanctuary. I silence it quickly, though the message remains on the screen.
TORNADO WARNING. SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.
“Perfect timing,” Lila mutters, more alert now. She shifts in the bathtub, wincing as her injured shoulder presses against the porcelain. “How did you know before the alert?”
I nod toward Max, who’s wedged himself against the tub, his body trembling. “He knew. Started acting strange, wouldn’t leave me alone until I checked the radar.”
