My breathing slows.
Three. A car passing. The click of my turn signal…
I’m so lost in controlling my emotions that I almost don’t notice the sky.
It’s not a dramatic shift. There’s no movie-moment crack of thunder or mysterious darkness. Just a subtle wrongness.
The air thickens. And the light in the sky turns flat and yellow, like someone pressed a dimmer light on the sun.
My chest tightens and I grip the steering wheel harder thannecessary, telling myself to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
Wind starts to rattle the windows of Chelsea’s Honda Civic like whispered warnings.
You’re okay.
But my heart doesn’t listen.
It starts racing—too fast, too loud—like it’s trying to outrun my thoughts. My hands feel disconnected from my body. The ring on my finger feels heavy and hot.
Silas.
Husband.
Safe.
All the words tangle together as fear starts to creep in with every sway of the car and the ones in front of me.
The first gust hits the car hard enough to make it drift.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, okay.”
Big golf ball sized hail slams down without warning, pounding against the windshield. The wipers automatically flip on and squeal as they move, but they can’t keep up with the hail. The trees on either side of the road bend unnaturally, leaves and debris spinning in tight circles across the road.
My breath comes shallow now. Faster.
Pull over, a rational voice says.
But panic doesn’t care about rational.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder.
I glance down for a second and that’s when the world tilts.
The wind screams, sounding like a freight train going a hundred miles an hour.
The Civic jolts sideways as debris skitters across the pavement before me—branches, leaves, something darker I don’t let myself identify. The steering wheel starts to vibrate in my hands.
Then the sky turns green.
I know that color. Growing up in Oklahoma makes you learn real quick what a green colored sky means.
“Oh God,” I panic.
My breath feels like it’s trapped somewhere behind my ribs. My vision narrows, edges blurring. I can’t get enough air. I can’t—breathe.
The funnel touches down a quarter mile away.
Small. Narrow. But close enough.
