“Well, consider me impressed. You’re evolving right in front of me,” I say, shooting him a sideways glance. “Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing jeans voluntarily.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” he replies, though there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Max picks that moment to drop his chin heavily onto Jonah’s shoulder. Instead of pulling away, Jonah lifts a hand and scratches under Max’s chin, earning a blissed-out stillness from the dog.
“I think he’s adopted you,” I note, keeping my attention on the road even as something warm unfurls in my chest at the sight. “Congratulations, it’s a dog.”
“Temporary custody,” Jonah corrects, but the way his hand lingers in Max's fur tells a different story.
“That’s what all fosters say before the foster fail.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is,” I assure him. “My sister is living proof. She started fostering for a local rescue, and now she’s a dog mom of six in a two-bedroom apartment.”
“That's very different,” Jonah protests, though his hand continues to stroke Max's golden fur. “She chose to foster. This was an emergency situation.”
“Uh-huh. We’ll see how you feel in a few days. I’m betting you’ll have an Amazon cart full of matching sweaters for him when you get back to campus.”
The dark clouds ahead have grown more defined, their undersides taking on that distinctive greenish tinge that makes my heart beat faster. I check the radar again—the hook echo is more pronounced now, rotation intensifying.
“We need to prepare for deployment,” I declare, automatically shifting into chase mode. “There's a county road about five miles ahead that should put us right next to the storm.”
Jonah straightens in his seat, transitioning seamlessly from dog-cuddler to meteorologist. “The vertical wind shear is impressive. Look at that anvil formation.”
“The question is what to do with Max while we're outside. He can't exactly help us set up equipment.”
“He stays in the truck,” Jonah says firmly. “With the windows cracked, of course.”
“And if he panics when the thunder starts booming?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“We'll see about that,” I mutter, checking the radar one more time. The storm system's movement has accelerated, the hook echo now fully formed. My skin tingles with that familiar electricity—the storm's calling card.
Before Jonah can respond, I spot it—a thin rope of condensation dropping from the cloud base about a mile ahead of us. “Funnel!” I shout, immediately slowing the truck and pulling onto the grassy shoulder.
It touches down in the field to our right, dirt and debris swirling into the rapidly thickening column. The funnel solidifies before us, transforming from wispy rope to solid column in seconds. Way too fast.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen yet,” Jonah mutters, tension tightening his words as he fumbles for his equipment.
“Tell that to the tornado,” I shoot back, already grabbing my camera from the backseat. Max whimpers, pressing himself against the floor of the truck. “Stay with Max,” I tell Jonah as I fling the door open. “I need footage of this formation.”
The wind slams into me as I step outside, nearly knocking me off balance. The air feels charged, electric against my skin. I brace against the truck door, lifting my camera to catch the rapidly intensifying tornado.
Through the viewfinder, I watch it swell to a quarter-mile wide, churning with debris. Its roar drowns out everything else.
I feel the shift before I see it—that sickening moment when the inflow jet changes direction. My camera catches the tornado twisting violently, its path turning erratic.
“Lila!” Jonah shouts, barely cutting through the noise. “It’s shifting track!”
I don't need the warning. I can see it happening through my viewfinder, the tornado suddenly lurching eastward—directly toward us. I lower the camera, calculating distances and wind speeds. We have a few minutes, at best.
A flash of movement catches my peripheral vision. I turn just as a large sheet of corrugated metal slices through the air. I try to duck, but I'm too slow.
The impact knocks me sideways against the truck, pain exploding across my shoulder and upper arm. My camera flies from my grasp as I crumple to one knee, the world tilting dangerously. Something warm trickles down my arm.
“Lila!”
