“Actually, I was thinking of something more collaborative. I'd join you in the field.”
I nearly spit out my beer. “You? In the field?”
I scan him from head to toe. His pressed khakis and button-down shirt scream indoor cat.
“I've done field work before,” he says, a touch defensively.
“Where? The university quad when it's drizzling?”
His jaw tightens slightly, and for the first time all evening, I manage to visibly get under his skin. Interesting. Maybe he’s not fully a science robot.
“I spent two summers with the VORTEX project as a graduate student. I'm not completely inexperienced.”
That surprises me. The VORTEX project was legitimate research. Not as intense as what I do, but not exactly weather camp either.
“That was what, ten years ago?”
“Eight,” he corrects. “And yes, I've been focused on computational modeling since then, but I understand the principles of field observation.”
I take another swig of beer, studying him over the bottle. He holds eye contact better than most people. The more I take him in while he rambles on about his theories, the more I notice about him. There’s a faint scar near his wrist disappearing beneath his rolled sleeve. His hands look rougher than I expected for someone buried in academia. Not construction-worker rough, but not soft either. His posture has even shifted since we started talking. Looser now. Less stiff.
“What’s in it for me besides acting as your tornado tour guide?”
“Joint institutional funding, for starters,” Dr. Reed says, without hesitation. “Full credit on any publications that result from our collaboration. And access to computational resources you likely don't have on your own.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So let me get this straight. You want me to chauffeur you around tornado alley, and in exchange I get my name on some paper nobody outside academia will read?”
“Your name would be first author,” he clarifies, as if that's the sticking point. “And the algorithms I've developed could potentially provide you with prediction capabilities beyond what's currently available through the National Weather Service.”
“How much beyond?”
“Potentially, a forty percent improvement in lead time for tornado formation, with twenty-two percent greater accuracy in predicting intensity.”
I study his face, looking for signs he's overselling. Nothing. No arrogance. No salesman pitch. Just the same calm certainty. Those numbers would be revolutionary if they’re real.
“You have proof of those statistics?”
“In simulations, yes. Which is why I need field validation. My models perform exceptionally well with historical data, but without real-time testing?—”
“They're just fancy math problems,” I finish for him.
He nods once. “Exactly.”
“You know that I publish my data on my website. You don’t have to go out into the field to get it.”
His lips thin as he quietly processes that. “I need real-time input and adjustment capabilities,” he says finally. “Your archived data is valuable, but for this model to work properly, I need to be able to calibrate as conditions evolve.”
I drain the rest of my first beer and set the bottle down with more force than necessary. “So you want to ride shotgun while I chase, feeding my observations into your laptop in real-time.”
“That's an oversimplification, but essentially correct.”
I stare at him for a second before laughing under my breath. Something about his earnestness makes me want to mess with him. To rattle his lab rat cage.
“You in my truck riding shotgun is genuinely difficult for me to picture.”
“Why?”
“Well, for starters, you look like you’d apologize to your dry cleaner for existing.”
