Expected snowfall: 24-30 inches (previously 18-24).
Wind gusts: 60+ mph (previously 50).
Windchill: -25°F (feels like).
Actual temperature: -5°F.
The mayor has extended the emergency declaration through tomorrow evening.
Residents advised to stay indoors unless absolutely necessary.
Travel not recommended.
Fuck.
"Everyone up," I say, my voice cutting through the quiet. "Now."
Devon jolts awake, nearly falling out of the chair. "What? What happened? Is it noon already?"
"Check your phones."
There's rustling as everyone stirs, pulling out devices, squinting at screens. I watch their faces change as they read the same update I just did. Understanding. Worry. Dread.
Washington sits up, running both hands through his hair. "We can't play in that. It's not safe."
"We have to," Becker says immediately, appearing from wherever he was hiding. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, and there's a crease on his face from whatever surface he was sleeping on. "We've come this far."
"Becker—"
"No. Listen. We've put in too much work. Everyone's expecting this. We can't just—"
"He's right," Devon says quietly, and everyone turns to look at him. "We can't ask people to risk frostbite for this. We can't ask the firefighters to play in dangerous conditions. It's not worth it."
I watch Devon's face as he says it, his jaw clenching, shoulders slumping slightly. He's been carrying this whole thing on his back for weeks, determined and unstoppable, and now I'm watching him break.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just this quiet crumbling, like a building giving up and folding in on itself.
The room falls into heavy silence. Nobody wants to say it out loud. That maybe this is over. That maybe we tried and failed. That maybe the universe just wasn't on our side this time.
Mama Paws stays silently, tears rolling down her cheeks, and that might be the worst part. This woman who's spent her life caring for animals nobody else wanted, who's poured her heart and soul into the shelter, watching her last hope slip away because of something as arbitrary as weather.
Devon stands abruptly and walks to the window. I follow without thinking.
He's staring out at the storm, at the snow coming down so thick you can't see more than a few feet. The wind is rattling the windows, making the whole house feel like it's under siege, and Devon's jaw is clenched so tight I'm worried about his teeth.
"Hey," I say softly, stopping next to him.
"I really thought we could pull this off." His voice is flat, defeated in a way I've never heard from him. "I really thought—"He stops, swallows hard. "I thought for once, just once, things would work out."
"They still can."
He turns to look at me, and his eyes are red-rimmed. "How? Even ifyou'reall crazy enough to play in that, we can't ask the firefighters to risk their health. We can't ask anyone to come out in this. It's not safe. It's not—"
His phone rings, cutting him off.
He pulls it out, glances at the screen. "It's Kayla." He answers, then listens. "Yeah?" And listens. "What?" And listens some more. "Are you serious?"
Then, he puts it on speaker, and everyone crowds around us, drawn in by Kayla's tone.
