I ease the truck back onto the flooded road. Neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the splash of tires through standing water and the rhythmic thump of windshield wipers. Every time lightning flashes across the cab, I catch pieces of him in my peripheral vision. His hands are trembling slightly. He's trying not to let them
I reach behind the seat and toss him the old flannel blanket I keep back there.
He catches it, startled. “You don' t have to?—
“You're going to freeze to death and I'm not dealing with that on top of everything else.”
The corner of his mouth moves. Just barely. That almost-smile. I wish it didn't register the way it does.
“Thank you,” he says, pulling the blanket around his shoulders.
I put both hands back on the wheel and watch the road.
We turn back onto the main highway, heading toward where we’d left the news van. The rain has slowed to a drizzle now, revealing the full violence of what moved through here. Downed branches litter the pavement. A massive oak lies uprooted in a nearby field, dirt and roots clawing into the air.
When we round the bend, a shocked gasp escapes me before I can stop it.
The Channel 8 van is there, but barely.
Every window has been blown out, jagged glass clinging to the frames. The hood is crushed inward like something enormous stepped on it. The satellite dish mounted to the roof is simply gone.
“Jesus,” I breathe, pulling beside the wreckage. “Hope Channel 8 has good insurance.”
Beside me, Jonah goes pale. Not because of the van, I realize. Because if we’d been any later getting out of there, we would’ve been inside it when the tornado hit.
The thought sends a delayed chill down my spine.
“We need to find Lucas,” I say quickly, shoving the feeling away. “Where did you say you dropped him off?”
“About two miles north of here.” Jonah swallows. “He wanted footage from the ridge.”
I kill the engine and glance toward the ruined van. “Salvage what you can. I’ll give you a ride.”
“A ride?” Jonah repeats, looking genuinely surprised.
“Unless you’d prefer to walk back to town.” I gesture toward the wreckage. “You’re not going anywhere in that van except the salvage yard.”
For a second, he just looks at me. And there’s something in his expression now that wasn’t there before the storm. Something quieter. Less guarded. Relief, maybe.
Or maybe disbelief that I’m still here after screaming at him for twenty straight minutes.
“Right,” he says softly. “Okay.”
He climbs out into the mud and drizzle, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. I watch him wade through puddles toward the wreckage, tall and hunched against the cold wind.
And against all logic, my chest tightens.
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, considering my options.
I could leave him here. Serve him right for his reckless stupidity. The storm has passed. He has a phone. He could call for help. But then I picture him stranded on this empty road as night falls, soaked through and exhausted, waiting hours for a tow truck while pretending he’s fine because he doesn’t know how to ask for anything.
And worse—I picture what almost happened out there.
The tornado swallowing him whole. The sound of me screaming his name into the storm.
I exhale slowly, frustrated with myself.
I don’t forgive recklessness. I don’t excuse it.
