“Are these marking all the tornadoes you’ve seen?”
Ozrik moved in beside me, pride swelling his chest. “No. The green ones are places we’ve been on chases. The red ones are EF4s we’ve witnessed. The orange pins are EF2 or EF3. The yellows are EF1s.”
“What’s this lonely purple guy?” It occupied a spot in our home state over Lawton.
“The only EF5 I’ve seen in real life.”
“No kidding.”
“It was incredible but terrifying. We got pretty close. Lex got the bug stuck in the mud, and we thought she was going to run us down. It’s the first time I was ever scared on a chase. I have a picture, but it’s not as nice as the ones you take. Hang on.”
Ozrik dug through a desk drawer and found a battered 4x6. The corners were soft and frayed. Fold lines marked the glossy surface. It had clearly been cherished for a long time, but it was wild. I felt its intensity.
“The picture doesn’t do it justice.”
“When was this?”
“April 14, 2023. Right here in the heart of Oklahoma. She was brutal. Did some nasty damage. The guys and I spent three days in the area helping with cleanup afterward.”
“Oh, I remember seeing that episode on your YouTube channel. I didn’t realize it was an EF5.”
I handed him the photograph, and Ozrik tilted his head. “You’ve watched our channel?”
Heat filled my cheeks. “Maybe.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Know your enemy?”
“Gale Windrow, you’re a terrible liar.”
Smirking, I studied more of what hung on his walls. Ozrik had posters of radar images showing beautifully formed supercells, random clippings from newspapers and magazines showing unstable weather, and various cloud formations. A framed piece of artist paper featured transitional sketches of what would become the Twisted Fates logo.
“You’re the one who should have gone to school for atmospheric science.”
Ozrik followed my gaze as I browsed. “I feel like school would have ruined it for me. Sucked the joy out of a good thing, you know?”
“Maybe. English lit never ruined my enjoyment of reading.”
“I guess.”
I stopped at a photograph depicting a man’s back. The lighting was poor, but the camera’s focus was on a tattoo of a massive tornado running up his spine. “What’s this?”
“Really?”
I glanced at Ozrik, confused.
He chuckled. “It’s my tattoo. Vern’s a terrible photographer.”
“You don’t have a tattoo.”
“Yes, I do. That one.” He motioned to the picture.
“How did I not know that?”
I’d seen Ozrik mostly naked twice, but thinking back, both times it had been dark, and he’d never faced away from me. In the motel room, the morning Noah walked in on us, I must have been too panicked to register. It wasn’t like we’d had much private time to explore each other intimately.
Ozrik’s grin turned devilish as I gawped between him and the photograph. “Wanna see?” he asked.
