“Barely,” I say, running my hand along the scratched paint job. I turn back to Jason and Irene, standing amid what's left of their life. The cat mews pathetically from inside the carrier, as if finally understanding the destruction around us.
“Do you have family nearby?” I ask, already knowing what I need to do.
Jason shakes his head. “Just us. My parents are in Tulsa, but...” He glances at his phone. “No signal.”
Irene clutches the pet carrier closer, her thin frame seeming to shrink further among the wreckage. “The neighbors might take us in.”
I scan the horizon. The tornado has carved a quarter-mile-wide path of ruin across the land, the destruction stretching beyond what my eyes can track.
“I can give you a ride into town,” I say, pulling my keys from my pocket. “Emergency services will be there. The Red Cross, too.”
“That’s very kind,” Irene says softly. “But you must have more important things to do.”
I think of the cameras waiting, of the data already slipping through my fingers. Dad would be out there right now, chasing patterns in the wreckage, turning chaos into numbers. But he also taught me that storms don’t end when the sky clears.
I look at Irene, then at the scar cut into the earth.
Chasing the storm can wait.
JONAH
I've always foundthat the most important scientific discoveries begin with lunch. Newton had his apple, and I have the faculty dining hall's questionable tuna melt.
“You should have seen it, Jonah. This wasn't just any supercell. This was the meteorological equivalent of Woodstock.” Lucas gestures wildly, nearly knocking over his water glass for the third time. “I'm standing there, camera rolling, wind threatening to turn me into the first weatherman in orbit, and this monster funnel drops right in front of me.”
I nod politely, stabbing at my pasta salad. After fifteen years of friendship with Lucas, I've learned to pace myself through his storm stories. The campus dining hall buzzes around us, professors hunched over their laptops, graduate students arguing theoretical frameworks, and me, listening to my colleague and best friend tell me about his latest storm conquest for the third time in the last few days.
“The rotation patterns were exactly what you predicted for plains-based supercells meeting a cold front,” Lucas continues, talking with his mouth full of French fries.
“That's interesting,” I say, because it is, even if Lucas's understanding of meteorological physics is about as deep as a weather app's. “Did you get clean footage?”
“Really? You know me better than that. Of course I did. In fact, I emailed it over to you two days ago. You should watch it.”
I sigh, scrolling through my email inbox. “I haven't checked my personal email in a while. Been busy with the grant proposal.”
“Well, check it now. This footage is gold for your research.” Lucas leans across the table, swiping through my phone before I can stop him. His enthusiasm has always been both his most endearing and most irritating quality.
“I can operate my own phone, thanks,” I say, taking it back.
“Oh, and the craziest part?” Lucas continues, undeterred. “You know who I met out there? Frank Brooks' daughter.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “Frank Brooks? The Frank Brooks?”
“The very same. Tornado whisperer extraordinaire, may he rest in peace.” Lucas nods solemnly before brightening again. “His daughter was there, right in the thick of it. She's even more hardcore than he was, if you can believe it.”
I can't help but lean forward now. “You met Lila Brooks?”
“Not just met her. She saved an old woman, her grandson, and a cat from certain death. Drove right into the path of an EF-3 to get them into their storm shelter.” Lucas shakes his head in admiration. “I tried to interview her, but she told me to shove my microphone where the sun doesn't shine.” Lucas chuckles, clearly more amused than offended. “She's not exactly the media-friendly type.”
“Her father wasn't either,” I point out, suddenly finding my mediocre lunch far less interesting than this conversation. “He was notorious for refusing interviews, especially after his data was misrepresented in that Weather Channel special.”
“Yeah, well, the apple didn't fall far from the tree. But man, you should've seen her in action. Completely fearless. The kind of person who runs toward danger instead of away from it.”
I try not to roll my eyes at Lucas's obvious admiration. He's always had a weakness for adrenaline junkies, having dated a skydiving instructor and a wildfire photographer in the same year. I think there was an acrobat in there, too, but his dating life is hard to keep track of these days.
“You know,” Lucas says, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye that usually means trouble, “Lila might be exactly what you need for your grant proposal.”
I nearly choke on my water. “Excuse me?”
