Without waiting for her to respond, I scoop her up into my arms once more, cradling her against my chest like a fragile treasure. The warmth of her body is a calming balm. Yet, in this moment, I feel a surge of happiness that she’s alive, that she’s here in my arms, mostly uninjured despite the turmoil. Her heart beats steadily against me, a reassuring rhythm that drowns out the distant rumble of thunder. But beneath that relief lies a thread of fear—what will we find in the aftermath of the storm? The uncertainty gnaws at me. Together, we step into the night with Max pressed tightly against my legs, the rain soaking us both, but I hold her tightly, determined to shield her from whatever awaits.
The motel’s entire western wing is gone. Just gone. Where rooms 10 through 16 used to be, there’s nothing but scattered lumber, twisted metal, and broken furniture. Our room marks the boundary where the tornado’s direct path ended. One more room over, and we would have been...I can’t finish the thought.
Rain continues to fall, illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning as the storm moves eastward. The air smells of wet wood, exposed insulation, and the distinctive ozone scent that follows severe weather. In the distance, I can hear sirens approaching.
The parking lot is barely recognizable. Debris litters every surface. Emergency lights flash in the distance, casting eerie blue and red shadows across the devastation.
Lila’s body is tense in my arms as we both scan the parking lot, searching for any sign of her beloved truck. At first, I see nothing but destruction, my heart sinking with each passing second.
Then we spot it. The unmistakable red undercarriage of her F-150, now facing skyward. The truck is completely flipped onto its roof, wedged against a large oak tree at the far end of the parking lot. The massive tree, partially uprooted, seems to have stopped the vehicle from being carried further by the tornado’s fury.
I feel Lila go completely still in my arms. Her entire body seems to stop breathing for a moment. Then she makes a sound, not quite a sob, not quite a gasp, that tears through me worse than the tornado ever could.
“No,” she breathes. “Put me down.” The demand comes out rough, breaking at the edges. “Now.”
I hesitate, glancing at the glass-strewn parking lot and her bare feet, but her expression leaves no room to argue. Carefully, I lower her to the ground, keeping one arm around her waist for support.
The moment her feet touch the wet asphalt, she moves toward the overturned truck with single-minded focus. Max and I follow close behind, picking our way through scattered debris as rain continues to fall.
“Careful,” I call, watching her navigate the uneven ground. Each step has to hurt, but she doesn’t slow.
When she reaches the truck, she drops to her knees beside it, ignoring the glass and twisted metal beneath her. Her good hand reaches out, fingers tracing the undercarriage now turned inside out. The red paint is scratched and dented, but unmistakably hers.
“Dad’s truck,” she breathes, and the pain in those two words tightens my chest.
I kneel beside her, careful of the debris. “I’m so sorry, Lila.”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps tracing the metal like she can fix it through touch alone.
But even I know, there’s no coming back from this.
LILA
I wonderif they’re right when they say you can die of heartbreak.
Not the romantic kind, but the kind that feels like your chest is caving in when you lose something that was your last connection to someone you loved. That’s what’s happening to me right now, staring at the ceiling of this hospital exam room while a doctor I can’t be bothered to remember the name of prods at my feet.
“These cuts aren’t too deep, but you’ll need to keep them clean. Glass can be nasty,” she explains, though her words feel distant, like they’re drifting up from far away.
My dad’s truck is gone. Really gone this time. There’s no coming back from this.
The same truck he taught me to drive when I was twelve, both of us laughing as I ground the gears. The truck where I fell asleep after countless chases, curled up on the bench seat with my head in his lap while he drove us home. The truck that held his coffee thermos in the console—the one I never washed because it was the last thing he’d used.
Flipped. Crushed. Gone. I had fought the insurance company for it after they totaled it, bought it back at salvage price, fixed it myself, accepted that a rebuilt title meant no second chances. I knew the risk going in.
It’s just that I never thought I’d actually lose it. It’s gone. Just like him.
“Ms. Brooks? Did you hear me?” The doctor’s words cut through the haze.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said we need to check your shoulder again.”
I nod mechanically. I don’t even wince when she pokes at the wound, which probably isn’t a good sign. I should probably care more about that. The doctor frowns at me, concern etching deeper lines into her already serious face.
“Your stitches are intact, which is frankly miraculous considering what you’ve been through, but I’m worried about your mental state. Are you feeling lightheaded? Confused?”
I almost laugh. Confused doesn’t begin to cover it.
