The radio now crackles with emergency broadcasts, warning residents to take shelter immediately. I scan the horizon for structures in its path, relieved to see mostly open farmland. Someone's livelihood is likely being destroyed with every acre it crosses.
I push the truck harder, racing along the rain-slicked road as the massive tornado carves its path through the landscape. My heart pounds in rhythm with the wipers slapping across the windshield. Through sheets of rain, I spot a high point about halfa mile ahead with a great vantage point and clear sightlines in all directions.
“That's the sweet spot,” I murmur, easing off the gas as I approach the turnoff.
I navigate carefully onto the muddy shoulder, positioning my truck perpendicular to the tornado's path. The massive funnel is fully visible now, a dark writhing column against the greenish sky, maybe three-quarters of a mile away. Close enough for excellent footage, far enough to maintain a crucial escape route.
Working quickly, I grab my main camera and tripod, setting up just beyond the hood of my truck. Rain pelts my face as I secure the tripod legs in the softening earth, making sure it's stable against the gusting winds. My fingers move with practiced precision, adjusting settings, checking focus.
“Mature tornado, EF-2, possibly EF-3,” I narrate as I begin recording. “Rotation intensifying as it moves across open farmland.”
Through my viewfinder, I watch the tornado's hypnotic dance. Its power is breathtaking—terrifying and beautiful in equal measure. I zoom in on the debris field at its base. The data from this system could be invaluable. Exactly the kind of real-world validation the professor's algorithms might need.
I catch myself mid-thought and curse under my breath. voluntarily. In that split-second of clarity, I can see smaller rotations dancing around the primary circulation like demonic children around their mother.
“Dammit,” I mutter, adjusting my camera to capture the multiple-vortex structure. This is exactly the phenomenon he described in his email.
The tornado continues its relentless advance, now about half a mile away. Close enough that I can hear its distinctive roar beneath the thunder—that freight train sound that never quite translates in recordings. The rain suddenly shifts direction,driven by the storm's powerful inflow jets, pelting my back instead of my face.
I'm so absorbed in documenting the tornado that I almost miss the approaching headlights. A vehicle is coming down the road behind me, moving fast despite the deteriorating conditions. I ignore the approaching vehicle, focusing on my work. The tornado has reached its mature stage, a wedge shape, churning with debris. I need to finish my documentation before adjusting position.
I feel, rather than see, the vehicle pull up beside me as the car stops about twenty feet away. Great. Probably some storm-chasing tourist who'll want to chat when I'm trying to work.
I hear a car door slam, followed by the sound of footsteps squelching through mud. Whoever it is, they're heading my way. I ignore them, focused entirely on keeping my shot steady as the wind buffets against me.
“Ms. Brooks?”
I slowly turn, rain streaming down my face, to find Dr. Reed standing ten feet away. His button-down shirt is already soaked through, dark fabric plastered tightly against his body. Rain drips from his hair in messy strands across his forehead while he clutches what looks like a handheld anemometer and some kind of sensor array to his chest like he’s trying to physically protect them from the storm.
Unfortunately, the wet shirt situation is doing deeply unhelpful things to my concentration. Because suddenly I can see all of him.
The lean lines of his body hidden beneath those carefully pressed professor clothes. The broad shoulders. The flat planes of his stomach outlined through soaked cotton. Even his sleeves are clinging to his forearms, and my brain immediately betrays me with the memory of wondering what he looked like under all those button-downs.
Apparently the answer is unfairly good.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I shout over the wind.
Jonah blinks rain out of his eyes, looking simultaneously determined and completely overwhelmed by the weather around him.
Honestly, he looks ridiculous. Like some drowned academic who took a wrong turn and accidentally wandered into a disaster movie. And yet my pulse kicks annoyingly harder at the sight of him standing there in the middle of a storm looking like that.
The expensive equipment in his hands is getting more drenched by the second, but he barely seems to notice. His focus locks onto me immediately instead, concern written plainly across his face even through the sheets of rain.
I can't believe this. Of all the ridiculous, dangerous stunts— “Are you insane?” I shout, gesturing wildly at the tornado that's now close enough to feel its power tugging at us.
A powerful gust nearly knocks him off balance. He stumbles, clutching his equipment tighter. The sight is so absurd that I almost laugh despite my anger. That’s when I notice what he drove. A SUV with a Channel 8 logo on the side. “You came with Lucas?”
“I dropped him off a few miles back. He had to get footage for the station, but I wanted to set up my equipment here.”
“He left you? Alone?” I'm incredulous. “With a tornado bearing down on us?”
“I've studied these systems for fifteen years,” he insists, stepping closer.
“In a lab!” I snap back, my attention divided between him and the approaching tornado. “Studying them and standing in front of one are completely different things.”
A violent gust nearly knocks me sideways. The tornado getting closer, and the wind is picking up dramatically. Shit.She’s shifting. “God dammit. She’s a sidewinder. We can’t stay here.” I need to make a decision—fast.
“What?” he yells over the noise.
