Page 26 of The Dysasters

Tate turned in the doorway. “I’m going to get food. Then I’m going to eat. Then I’m going to sleep. AndthenI’m going to figure out how to go home.”

“Fine. Do what you want.”

“Fine.” He paused and hated the next words that he had to speak. “I need money.”

Foster reached into the satchel she seemed to always have with her and pulled out a wad of cash, tossing it at him. “Get something green. The code to the gate’s 9662. Close the door on your way out.”

Tate slammed the door to the office and stomped from the farmhouse.The sky looked ominous, pregnant with rain that had just started to change from drizzle to downpour. Wind wailed around him, lifting his hair and making him shiver. He scanned the darkening sky for a wall cloud. Fog obscured the green ridge of distant mountains and he couldn’t see shit.Ah, to hell with it! I got rid of a tornado once—I can do it again.Head tucked against the wind and rain, Tate ran to the pickup.

He started the truck easily. Foster had made him do it over and over again on their trip. He floored it, getting spiteful pleasure from hearing the gravel spray the porch. He paused at the gate, but it sensed the truck and opened soundlessly.

It wasn’t until he got all the way back to the little store that sat beside the bridge that led to the mainland that Tate’s temper cooled. He parked the truck and sighed, rubbing his face and trying to get his thoughts together. What was he doing here? He should’ve stayed in Homer, no matter what crazy-ass Foster had said.

Then, as if he was watching a movie replay from his memory, Tate saw the two of them—Foster and him—standing side by side as that tornado plowed down the football field. He heard his shout again,YOU WILL NOT COME THIS WAY!He felt the rush of electricity that swept over him as he literally hurled that huge twister away from them.

“That’s why I’m here,” Tate muttered to himself. “We did that. I have to figure out how, and I can’t go home until I do.”

Tate rubbed his face again, thinking he’d never felt this tired in his life as he stared blankly into the distance… until he realized what it was he was staring at.

“Yes! Things might just be looking up for me!”

Tate hurried from the truck, taking the stairs to the little clapboard-sided store two at a time. Moving quickly, he filled his arms with food—remembering to grab some green stuff—then he piled everything up before the only cash register.

“Looks like you’re camping this weekend,” said the old guy who sported a long, scraggly beard and a man bun as he rang up and bagged Tate’s groceries.

“Yes, sir,” Tate said automatically.

“Well, I hope the weather gets better for you. It’s been a mess lately.”

“Me too. Hey, does that pay phone out there work?” Tate jerked his thumb toward the side of the parking lot where the old aluminum and glass booth sat like something out of a seventies movie.

“Well, yes son, it sure does. It’s probably the last one in this part of the country that works. It even takes quarters.”

“Cool. Could you give me a bunch of quarters with my change, please?”

“Sure, kid.” The guy handed him a handful of quarters with his change. “Hey, you’re not going to turn into Superman or anything, are you?”

“No, sir. I’m a different kind of superhero.”

Tate left the store in a wash of the man’s chuckles. He put the groceries in the cab of the truck and went to the phone booth. Feeling like he’d stepped back in time, Tate dialed the number he’d memorized when he was five years old. The gruff old voice answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“G-pa it’s me, Tate. I’m not dead.” And then Tate Nighthawk Taylor began to sob.

9

TATE

“Look, before you yell at me, I’m not technically in the room. I also brought you something green.” Tate extended a grocery bag. “Truce?”

“I found something. Put the bags down and come here,” Foster said, barely glancing up at him from the papers she’d been studying on the desk.

Tate grunted, “So, am I allowed in or what?”

“Look, Tate, this is me trucing. If you think I’m going to offer some apology, I’m not because I’m not sorry. People shouldn’t apologize if they don’t mean it. So take it or leave it.” Pulling her damp, freshly washed hair off her shoulders, she did look up at him then. “Or you can eat and leave. Like you said you would. Just make up your mind.”

Tate put the grocery bags down and went to stand before the desk. “I made up my mind. I’m staying, but I’m going to be as honest about it as you. I’m only staying because I have to find out what we are. I have to know if I caused that tornado and my parents’ death. When I figure this weird crap out I’m going to leave and do whatever I can to make sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else’s family, whether you want to stay here with your head stuck in the sand or not. Deal?”