“The NWS is conservative by design. They don't want to cry wolf.” I take another sip of the terrible coffee, grimacing at the taste. “But anyone who knows what to look for can see this system has major potential.”
He is clearly pleased that our assessments align. “So you believe my model is accurate?”
“I believe it’s showing what I already suspected,” I clarify, refusing to give him too much satisfaction. “Which means either you got lucky, or there’s actually something to these algorithms of yours.”
Jonah leans back in his chair. “You know,” he says, fingers resting loosely beside the keyboard, “most people would just admit they’re impressed.”
“Most people don’t survive by assuming they’re the smartest person in the room.”
“And you do?”
I meet his gaze evenly. “I survive by assuming storms don’t care about confidence.”
“Good thing I’m more interested in data than confidence, then.”
This man could probably make tax law sound attractive if he explained it with enough intensity.
I lean closer to the laptop again mostly so I stop thinking about that.
“Let's say I agree to this partnership,” I say slowly. “What exactly are you hoping to get from it, beyond field validation?”
“Primarily? Data that can save lives.” He closes one of his notebooks, meeting my eyes directly. “If we can improve tornado prediction by even three minutes, that's three more minutes for people to reach shelter. It's the difference between a tragedy and a close call.”
It's the right answer—almost too right, like he rehearsed it. But there's a sincerity in his expression that's hard to fake.
“Fine,” I say finally, closing his laptop with a decisive snap. “We have a deal.”
Jonah blinks, as if he can't quite believe I've agreed. “Really?”
“Don't make me change my mind.” I drain the last of my terrible coffee. “My conditions stand. I make the calls in the field.”
“Absolutely,” he nods eagerly, gathering his notebooks. “So, what do we do first?”
I can't help it—I laugh.
“What?” he asks, looking confused and mildly hurt.
“First,” I say, gesturing at his button-down shirt and pressed khakis, “we need to address your wardrobe.”
“My wardrobe?” He glances down. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything,” I say, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
JONAH
I stareat the dark denim hanging over the changing room door like it just hissed at me. They’re jeans. I am aware of this. Cotton. Dyed. Mass-produced. Not sentient. And yet. I reach out and touch the fabric with the caution of a man diffusing a bomb. I can’t remember the last time I wore jeans—graduate school, maybe. And even then, it was under social pressure. Eleanor had promised the departmental picnic would be “casual.” I wore khakis and still felt like I’d disrespected academia.
“Are you putting them on or just having a staring contest with them?” Lila’s voice slices through the thin door.
“I’m evaluating them.”
“You’re evaluating pants?” There’s an audible sigh from the other side. “Those dress pants of yours will shred the second they meet barbed wire. And you don’t come across as the kind of guy who wants to haul ass from a tornado with his ass hanging out.”
I freeze.
“That phrasing feels unnecessarily vivid.”
I exhale slowly and begin unbuttoning my khakis with all the solemnity of a man surrendering to peer pressure. I fold them carefully then pick up the jeans. I step into them and pull. They resist. I pull harder. Eventually they slide into place, snug around my thighs. My legs have never been this clearly outlined before. I button the waistband and turn toward the mirror.
