“For what it's worth,” Jonah continues, “I think he'd be proud of what you’re doing, carrying on his work, trying to make these storms more predictable.”
“Maybe,” I say, focusing on the road ahead as we crawl through the traffic congestion. “Or maybe he'd tell me I'm crazy for getting back in the chase vehicle after what happened to him.”
“Do you think that's true?” Jonah asks, turning more fully toward me.
I consider this as I navigate around a slow-moving semi. The question hits deeper than he probably realizes. It's something I've asked myself on countless sleepless nights, staring at motel ceilings across tornado alley.
“No,” I finally admit. “Dad understood the call of the storm better than anyone. He wouldn't have wanted me to stop, just to be smarter about it.”
Jonah nods slowly, as if taking it in. “I think that’s what separates real scientists from the rest—the ability to respect what you study without letting fear stop you from understanding it.”
It’s been a long time since someone actually got it—got me—without the judgment or concern that usually follows when people learn what I do for a living. Most people hear “storm chaser” and immediately decide I have a death wish. Or daddy issues. Or some reckless addiction to adrenaline that needs fixing.
Jonah doesn’t.
He asks questions instead of making assumptions. Listens instead of trying to lecture me about danger. And somehow, without even trying, Jonah makes me feel less alone inside the loss of my dad. No one, not even my mom or sister, have done that. Yet, this man, who I have only known a few days, sees me fully.
I clear my throat, uncomfortable with how seen I suddenly feel. “Anyway, enough about my tragic backstory. Tell me about the system we're tracking.”
Jonah takes the change of subject gracefully, pulling out his tablet. “This storm,” he says pointing to one to our east, “has wide open skies and nothing else around her.” He uses his finger to scroll down on the screen. “But this one to the south has better numbers.”
I glance at my dashboard radar. “You think we should adjust our route?”
“If we continue east for another thirty miles, then cut south on Route 15, we should intersect the storm's path at its most active point.” His finger traces the route on the tablet screen.
“I've taught you something after all,” I remark, unable to keep a small smile from my lips.
“I'm a quick study,” he replies with that subtle, dry humor that keeps catching me by surprise.
Max woofs softly from the backseat, as if offering his approval of our storm-tracking strategy.
“See? Even Max agrees.”
“Hey, don't encourage him,” I say to Max, though I can't help smiling at the dog's apparent interest in meteorology. “Next thing you know, he'll want his own weather station.”
“I think he'd be quite good at it,” Jonah replies, reaching back to scratch behind Max's ears. “He's already got the sensory awareness part down. Dogs can detect pressure changes before most instruments.”
“Is that another fact from the Jonah Reed encyclopedia of random knowledge?” I tease, but I'm genuinely curious.
“Actually, yes. I did a literature review on biometric responses to barometric pressure changes during my post-doc. There's fascinating research suggesting certain animals can detect shifts as subtle as half a millibar.” His face lights up with that particular enthusiasm he gets when sharing information, and I find it oddly endearing.
“So, Max here could be our early warning system?”
“In theory. Though I imagine his alerts might consist primarily of hiding under furniture.”
I laugh at that, picturing the golden retriever diving under a bed at the first sign of thunder. “At least he'd be consistent.”
The traffic finally thins out, and I press down on the accelerator, eager to make up for lost time. The storm system ahead is developing rapidly, dark clouds building on the horizon like a mountain range forming in fast-forward.
“We should reach our intercept point in about forty minutes,” I say, checking the latest radar update. “Assuming the system maintains its current trajectory.”
“You know what happens when you assume?”
I nearly pull over the truck to stare at him. “Was that a joke?”
“It was a joke attempt,” Jonah admits, a hint of color creeping into his cheeks. “I'm trying to lighten up. Be less stuffy.”
I can't help the laugh that bursts out of me. Mr. Algorithms and Atmospheric Pressure is making jokes in my truck. The apocalypse must be nigh.
