The tornado is still visible, the debris field widening as itroars through the town. With tornado warnings posted fifteen minutes before it touched down, I can only hope residents took it seriously and everyone is safe in a storm shelter.
“Let’s go.” My voice is hoarse as I turn back toward the car. “We shouldn’t drive too far into town in case there’s a gas leak. Wes grabbed some extra water earlier. There’s probably wires down, and they might be live, so we need to—”
“Sloane.” Wes grabs hold of my shoulders in a gentle but firm touch. “We’ve all done this before.” He leans his forehead against mine for a few precious seconds, takes a long breath, and then opens my door for me. The sirens continue to wail behind us. “I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”
I nod, squeeze his hand one more time, and steel myself for what’s coming. It doesn’t escape me that Wes never says it will be okay. We both know that while it might be true for us, for the people who live here, it’s not.
It only takes a few minutes to reach the edge of the destruction. Uprooted trees tangle in downed power lines. Shingles lay scattered across the road like confetti. Glass crunches under my boots when I get out of the car, the scent of freshly split wood heavy in the air.
We move quickly, emptying our camera bags and leaving our gear tucked under the seats. It’s replaced by first aid supplies and bottles of water. I hand Wes the small axe I keep in my emergency kit, stuff another bottle of water in my bag for good measure, and then take a long, slow breath.
His hand grazes my lower back in a comforting touch. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s help who we can.”
After making sure Tracy and Matt have plenty of waterbottles to hand out too, Wes and I head in one direction while they take another. We’ll cover more ground in separate pairs.
The first couple of houses aren’t damaged too badly, families emerging unscathed from their storm shelters. But as we move deeper into town, the damage quickly grows worse. I peer into cars parked on the side of the road with their windows smashed out, relieved when I find them empty.
I try very hard not to think about the image of Wes’s car in a similar state and how badly that could have ended. Our eyes catch when I reach out to squeeze his hand. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one thinking about that moment right now by the way his throat bobs before he looks pointedly away.
We start knocking on what’s left of front doors, ears straining for cries for help in the near-deafening silence that falls once the tornado sirens abruptly cut out. No one answers, but at the muffled bark of a dog, Wes glances back at me before shoving his shoulder into the door we just knocked on. Hard.
“Anyone inside?” he shouts, ducking under the branch that’s sticking through one of the front windows. “Call out if you need help!”
The house groans when he pushes his way inside. “Careful!” I hiss, reaching for the back of his T-shirt and grabbing a fistful of fabric. “You don’t need to get trapped in there too.”
This time, the barking is accompanied by the faint sound of a man’s voice, too quiet to make out words. Wes hesitates, takes another step into the house, and waits to see if anything else shifts. “I’ll be okay,” he says over his shoulder, but that doesn’t stop him from pointing toward the debris-littered yard. “Wait out here while I see what we’re dealing with.”
Apprehension tightens my throat. “If it’s not safe for me, then—”
“Sloane. Please. I know you’re capable, but I can’t handle you being in here with me, all right?”
The strangeness in his voice clicks into place. Fear. Wes is afraid for me—and we don’t have time to argue about it. I nod, take a step back, and wait the longest two minutes of my life for him to come back out with an elderly man’s arm slung over his shoulders. A black lab follows so closely that Wes nearly trips on his way past the door barely hanging on to one hinge.
“Damn dresser tipped over,” the man says as we help him out to his driveway where, by some miracle, his car sits undamaged. “Couldn’t get out of the closet.”
We linger long enough to make sure he’s able to sit down, hand him a bottle of water, and then we’re on to the next house.
Before long, the town is swarming with first responders. We help where we can and get out of the way where we can’t. Someone hands Wes a chainsaw, and he goes to work taking apart tree limbs blocking access to roads while carefully avoiding the downed power lines strewn everywhere.
I lose track of time, squinting against the low angle of the sun as I work, heat and humidity rebuilding rapidly in the wake of the storm. It’s one of the cruelest things—not twenty minutes after ruining lives, the sky is painted with one of the most stunning sunsets I’ve ever seen. I swear it’s hotter now than it was before the storm, sweat dripping from every inch of me as I hand out water bottles next to one of the EMTs.
Night creeps in a little at a time and then all at once, the darkness broken by an army of flashing blue and red lights, the endless buzz of chainsaws filling the air.
I meet the eyes of strangers over and over, offering what little comfort I can. My thoughts stagger between guilt and grief. This would have happened whether we were here or not, but it’s hard not to feel like the worst kind of vulture. This town will bear the scar of today for years to come. I’m going to climb into a clean, dry vehicle and drive away from the carnage. It’s hard to reconcile that something I love, the season I look forward to all year as an escape, can quickly turn into someone else’s private hell.
I nearly jump out of my skin when a hand lands on my shoulder. “Sloane,” Wes rasps, sawdust and dirt streaked across his face. His shirt is soaked in sweat, dotted with mud and what looks like blood. I hope it’s not his. “You’re bleeding,” he says, holding my wrist with exquisite gentleness so he can study the long scratch on my forearm that I didn’t notice.
I think one of the tree branches got me when I helped Wes pull someone out through what used to be their living room window, but it’s impossible to know. “I’ll clean it later.”
The EMT next to us glances at my arm, seemingly noticing the long scrape for the first time. “Not much left for y’all to do,” she says, not unkindly. “We appreciate the help, but might as well get on out of here.”
My first impulse is to argue, but she’s right. There’s a fine line between helping and getting in the way. The last thing we need to do is tip over into the latter. Wes slings his arm around my shoulders, and despite the sweat and dirt and exhaustion, I press into his side just to feel how very alive he is against me.
We catch up to Tracy and Matt on our way back to the car. Their expressions match ours, mud-streaked, weary, and just alittle haunted. Tracy’s attention drifts toward Wes’s arm around me. “You know where you’re staying tonight?”
His fingers flex on my shoulder, his grip tightening and relaxing so quickly I suspect it’s unintentional.
“Not yet.” He glances down at me. “Should probably figure that out, though. Anything around here is going to be full with families and first responders. Might need to drive for a bit.”
