I tune it out. I'm already ahead of their warning by twenty minutes. In the distance, a flash of lightning illuminates the underbelly of the storm. I count automatically—one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand—reaching eight before the thunder rolls across the prairie about a mile and a half out.
Rain wraps around the horizon in shifting gray curtains while the wall cloud lowers another few hundred feet, slow rotation tightening beneath the mesocyclone. Wind tears across the field hard enough to rock the truck. Above the cab, Dad’s modified instruments chatter softly as pressure readings continue to fall.
This should have my full attention. Usually, it would.
I stand beside the truck with my phone in hand, radar app open as velocity signatures pulse red and green across the screen. The storm is cycling hard. The rotation is becoming more defined by the second.
And somehow, despite all of that, my stupid brain keeps drifting back to Jonah’s email. It’s infuriating.
I swipe back to radar again, trying to force myself into focus mode. Storm first. Everything else later. That’s always been the rule. But the email sits there in the back of my mind anyway.
I should reply. I will replay. After.
Because I am not the kind of person who stands in an open field under a rotating supercell composing emails to someone who has, apparently, managed to lodge himself somewhere between my prefrontal cortex and my better judgment after a single conversation. That is not who I am.
I've tracked debris signatures while changing a tire in quarter-sized hail. I've run on two hours of sleep through three states without blinking. The fact that he’s occupying this much space in my head is genuinely starting to piss me off.
Another gust drags my hair across my face. I look back down at the radar.
The velocity couplet snaps tight.
There it is. Rotation. Real rotation. I exhale slowly and let everything else go quiet.
My phone buzzes in my hand with an urgent alert—not the typical weather service warning, but my custom storm tracker app. My heart rate spikes as I read the notification.
CONFIRMED TORNADO ON GROUND. 8 MILES NE OF ENID. MOVING ESE AT 25MPH.
I shove the phone into my jacket pocket and reach for the camera mounted nearest the truck.
Focus, Brooks. Storm first. Professor later.
I grab my binoculars and scan the northeastern horizon. There—a dark vertical shadow against the charcoal sky. It's already a well-formed funnel, probably an EF-2 at least from the size, though it's hard to tell at this distance.
Decision time. I have maybe ten minutes before I need to commit. Stay put and let the system come to me, or relocate to intercept the tornado directly?
My current position is elevated with clear sightlines. The tornado's projected path will bring it within range in about fifteen minutes. But if I move now, I could get closer, and get better data.
The wind whips my hair across my face as I calculate rapidly. Moving means packing up equipment and losing continuous data collection. Staying means potentially missing the best documentation opportunity.
“What would you do, Dad?” I mutter, eyes fixed on that distant funnel.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the massive supercell structure. I make my decision. Snatching my phone, I hit the voice recording function.
“A tornado has already formed northeast of my position, moving east-southeast. Decision to relocate for better documentation.” I pause, watching another flash illuminate the funnel. “Rotation appears to be intensifying.”
I work quickly, collapsing tripods and securing equipment. My hands move almost independently of my thoughts, muscle memory taking over while my mind races through variables.
The first heavy raindrops become a steady downpour as I load the last camera into my truck. I'm soaked through in seconds, but I barely notice. The storm's roar grows louder, a deep rumbling punctuated by sharper cracks of thunder.
I slide behind the wheel, firing up the engine and checking the radar one more time. The tornado's path is steady. If I take County Road 18 north and then cut east, I should be able to pull up right alongside her.
I punch the coordinates into my GPS, though I don’t really need them. After years of chasing in these counties, the web of rural roads is mapped in my mind as clearly as the storm patterns themselves.
The wipers struggle against the intensifying rain as I pull onto the road. My truck's tires spray muddy water as I accelerate, eyes constantly shifting between the road ahead and the tornado visible through my passenger window. It's growing, feeding on the energy of the massive storm system that spawned it.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter, urging both my truck and the storm. Part of me—the reckless part Dad always tried to temper—wants to get closer than is strictly necessary for documentation. The scientist in me knows exactly how close is too close.
I take a sharp turn onto County Road 18, the truck fishtailing slightly on the rain-slick asphalt. My equipment slides in the back, secured but protesting the rough treatment. Through gaps in the curtain of rain, I can see the tornado has widened, its circulation intensifying as it chews across the landscape.
