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“The storm’s getting more organized on this side.” He gestures toward part of the image on his screen.

I stare at the mess of colors. “You’re gonna have to translate that for me.”

“That mess,” he says, pointing at the screen, “means there’s a nasty cluster of thunderstorms building in the eyewall.”

I rub my damp palm down the side of my leggings and nod toward the screen. “See? Human words.”

Tatum looks up from the floor. “Is that where they’re going next?”

Trace doesn’t answer right away.

That tiny hesitation puts me right back on edge.

“Trace.”

“If they keep the same general plan, yeah. But they’ve got radar on the plane and a hell of a lot more information than we do sitting here.”

I look back at the TV as the meteorologist starts talking about the same part of the storm, but I’m barely listening now because I’m watching Trace instead.

He’s sitting straighter than he was a minute ago, the laptop pulled higher on his thighs while his eyes move between the recon data and the radar. He’s worried, and that does more to fuck with me than anything that’s happened so far.

The trail starts bending back toward Ruth again while Trace scans the numbers beside the newest observation. His mouth tightens.

Tatum’s attention snaps fully to Trace. Ellie leans forward in the armchair, bracing her forearms on her knees, while Scout scoots closer on the floor until her shoulder presses against my leg.

Nobody has to tell us they’re getting close again.

Then Trace mutters, “Fuck.”

My head snaps toward him. “What?”

He drags a hand over his jaw without taking his eyes off the screen. “They’re getting some really strong wind in there.”

“How strong?”

Trace finally looks at me, and the fact that he takes a second before answering makes the back of my neck prickle.

“Strong enough that I’m very happy I’m sitting on your couch right now and not up there with them.”

I stare at him. “That was not remotely comforting.”

“I wasn’t trying to scare you.” He turns the laptop slightly toward himself again. “The wind measurement doesn’t mean the plane’s in trouble, Goldie. Those aircraft are made to withstand doing this. Ruth’s a Category Five. She’s going to have some ugly numbers. It’s what they expect.”

I nod, but my arms tighten around the pillow in my lap.

The next dot lands right at the edge of the eyewall, and another pops up inside it.

They’re back in there.

For a while, the updates keep coming at a steady pace. My palm drifts over my stomach when the baby shifts, and I press against the hard little spot pushing back at me through my shirt.

“Your dad better appreciate the stress he’s putting us through tonight,” I mutter, rubbing over the spot.

Andie reaches over and squeezes my knee.

I slide my free hand into hers and hold on while I keep watching Trace’s screen.

The line on the map stretches a little farther through the eyewall.