A red banner flashes across the top of my screen:SEVERE WEATHER ALERT.
I exhale through my nose, already bracing.
Severe thunderstorm warning. Flash flooding possible.Hail expected.
I stare at it for a second longer than necessary, like if I wait long enough it might revise itself. Downgrade. Apologize. Tell me that I don’t have to go outside, wrangle the tarps and get them situated.
Instead, the rain hammers harder against the roof, punctuating the message.
“Of course,” I mutter, slipping the phone back into my pocket.
The building groans lightly around me, water finding new paths no matter how many buckets I line up. Whatever hope I had that this would be a quick fix drains away with every roar of thunder.
This isn’t going to stop anytime soon.
twenty-one
Colson
Theskyhasthatlook to it, the one that matches the weather alert that popped up on my phone.
I’ve lived through enough Chicago summers to recognize the shift: the air goes heavy, the wind changes directions and acting like it’s fading, only for it to sprint back. The unexpected thing about living near a lake is how quick the wind picks up and turns a bad storm into something personal. I move through the house on autopilot, checking windows, latching the loose one in the back, pulling the garbage cans into the garage.
The rain comes down in sheets and is almost sideways. It pounds against the glass, louder than it feels like rain should be. I’m tugging the last window shut when I see her.
Sadie’s crossing the parking lot toward the rec center, jacket zipped up, hood pulled tight around her face. She’s wrestling with a blue tarp that’s clearly winning. The wind snaps one corner loose, yanking it sideways like it’s got a mind of its own.
She stumbles but quickly regains her footing. I think she’s going to leave the tarp behind, get inside, but she doesn’t.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
She’s trying to juggle the tarp and the door at the same time, rain pelting her in the face. Another gust catches the tarp and sends it billowing, the plastic cracking loud enough that I hear it even through the glass.
My chest tightens. Why wouldn’t she ask for help?
Without thinking, I move. I’m bolting out the door, barely getting my rain jacket on, the wind slamming into me the second I step outside. Rain needles my face as I jog toward her.
“Sadie!” I shout.
She turns, eyes wide in surprise as the tarp tries to take flight again. I reach her in two strides, grabbing the loose corner and anchoring it against my side.
“What are you doing?” I ask, having to be loud enough to fight the wind.
“Just need a tarp. I’ve got it.” The wind shifts, making us turn our faces in order to catch our breath. “I’ve got it.”
“You’re kidding. You do not have anything!” I yell, taking her place in front of the door, holding it open and giving her the leverage to get inside.
Once we’re inside, dripping water in the gym entrance, something is heavy on my chest.
She laughs breathlessly, half-relieved, half-exasperated. “I was managing.”
“You were losing,” I say flatly.
Thunder cracks overhead, closer this time. Sadie takes the tarp, trying to shake the water out. She uses a towel to try and take care of the rest of the rain water on the tarp, struggling to handle the awkward size of it. Still, she doesn’t ask for help as she takes a few steps into the gym.
Her water-drenched shoes are quick to slip and I’m thankful I’m following her, so I can catch her.
“Sadie. What the hell are you doing?”
