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Nobody says anything after that. Even Scout stays quiet while we all stare at Trace’s laptop. The Weather Channel is still on, but we’re all ignoring it.

Another point appears closer to the center.

Then another.

I’m still leaning forward, bracing myself against the arm of the couch, watching the little trail grow across Trace’s screen.

“How do you know when they hit the eyewall?” Andie asks from beside me.

Trace points toward the thick ring around the eye. “You’ll see the observations start crossing into it. That’s the first penetration.”

Scout snorts and looks away from the laptop. “There has to be a less sexual word for that. Though I guess they are basically ramming that airplane right up the hurricane’s⁠—”

Aaand that’s right about the time I tune her out, blindly reaching for another chip while my focus stays locked on Trace’s screen.

He clicks, the screen refreshes, and another dot appears.

“They’re in the eyewall,” he says.

The chip in my mouth suddenly feels dry as hell despite the cheese dip, and I have to force myself to chew while I stare at the end of that little trail.

I wait for the next point, but nothing appears.

Trace doesn’t look worried, but every second the screen stays the same stretches longer than the one before it.

I rub my thumb back and forth over the seam of the couch.

Come on.

Trace refreshes the page, but this time there’s no new dot.

My fingers dig harder into the fabric until they start to ache. The queso sits heavy in my stomach now, and I swallow against the sudden urge to throw up everything I just ate.

Nobody says anything to me. Thank god, because I don’t want somebody telling me this is normal or that everything’s fine.

I need to know he’s okay. I need something new to appear at the end of that trail and tell me the plane is still flying. That everything’s fine.

Trace refreshes again, and a new point finally appears farther through the eyewall.

I blow out a shaky breath.

Okay.

There you are.

A few more dots appear after that, each one carrying them farther through the eyewall.

Then Trace’s shoulders drop a little.

“They’re in the eye.”

“Oh, thank god.” I sink back into the couch for the first time since they turned toward the storm, my fingers finally letting go of the death grip I’ve had on the cushion.

Scout looks between me and Trace. “That’s good, right?”

“Better,” he says. “It’s a lot calmer inside the eye.”

I rub both hands over my face, trying to get rid of some of the nervous energy still buzzing under my skin.