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I found myself smiling at him again. “Yeah. It is.”
* * *
The storm hit atfour fifteen, and even though it hit hard, it was a relief. Humidity sat over 90% for almost an hour before it broke, sweat was running down my back and dripping down my face. It was almost unbearable.
When Tully pulled his shirt off, I was going to complain but then thought better of it. It wasn’t hurting anyone, and it was for his comfort, after all.
At least that’s what I told myself.
It had nothing to do with his ripped physique, broad shoulders, defined pecs and abs, tanned skin, or the hair on his chest.
It had nothing to do with that at all.
Keep telling yourself that.
We lowered the walls a little, not all the way, but just so the rain wouldn’t come in. The design of this shed was so simple yet genius, it was hard not to be impressed. It withstood the storm as if it were no more than a gentle breeze, let alone the thirty millimetres of water it dumped in the sixty-kilometre winds.
Thunder boomed and cracked, lightning lit up the sky in jagged cracks and bolts. It was a decent display and I managed some recordings, but it wasn’t anything extraordinary.
The electrical readings weren’t as high as I’d liked—it was mostly sheet lightning, intra-cloud, with little cloud-to-ground activity—but it was a good test for a first run.
A good taste of what was to come, perhaps.
And it was good to see how Tully reacted. He was so interested in the radar and the readings, and what both cameras recorded. The thunder clapped overhead a few times, loud enough to ring in my ears. The clouds were low, and the electrical charge readings were constant, which meant we were right in the thick of it.
“Is that high?” he yelled over the sound of the rain.
I see-sawed my hand. “No. It means we’re close, but it’s not bad or threatening at all,” I explained. “It’s pretty tame.”
He nodded, but his grin was still there. I was pretty sure he just liked storms. He didn’t care about the science behind it, he just liked the wildness of it.
When the storm had passed and the rain cleared, we opened up the walls again, letting the breeze through. It was much cooler now.
“Listen to that noise,” Tully said, staring into the trees.
I didn’t need to perk my ears at all. The sounds of the forest were almost deafening. Cicadas, frogs, birds sang a cacophony of song.
“It’s a good sign, right?” I asked.
“Yep. Did you know birds sing a different sound after rain than what it is before the rain?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“It’s pretty cool.” He shrugged. “If you know what to listen for. One of the old guys that used to go huntin’ with my dad told us that. He could tell the difference in birdsong. I can’t. But he also said if you don’t hear any birds before a bad storm,”—he gestured to the trees—“you know it’s time to bail out.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” I admitted. “I did a study in South America a few years ago now. The field guides said the same thing. Listen to the forest.”
He was clearly surprised. “South America, huh? Where else have you been storm chasing?”
Storm chasing...
“I don’t chase storms,” I said. I knew he meant no harm, but still... the demeaning generalisation stung. “I study fulminology.”
Tully shrugged. “So where else have you studied the science of fulminology?”
Now I felt petulant.
“Just two places. Indonesia and South America. Venezuela to be exact. There’s a place called Catatumbo—”
