Page 5

As I watched her dart, I raced to close the barn door. Ideally, we would have let the horses out, but there was no time. Deep down, I knew this would be terrible but if I didn’t race up to the house, I’d be a goner.

Without a moment to spare, I ran uphill towards our brick house facing a small pond. It was supposed to be our little bit of heaven far enough from the barn to not constantly smell like a horse, but close enough that a short jog during foaling season wasn’t too bad. I could only hope it survived this storm. Our dream house. And it was in the line of fire!

“Basement. Now!”

Piper raced downstairs. I turned on the TV, leaving it on WGN’s weather forecast. I turned up the volume so we could hear downstairs. I called Brownie, our elderly greyhound to the basement steps. She shook in fear, unwilling to navigate the steps. So, I grabbed eighty pounds of dog and carried her with us.

Piper set up in the unfinished portion holed up with couch pillows like I’d coached her. On the plains outside the city, we got our fair share of weather. Usually it was nothing, but a storm like this could leave a critical hit like her mother and I once survived.

“Do you think grandma and grandpa are okay?” Piper asked.

“They’re so far south, sweetheart. They will be fine. Remember, we all survived that bad one in the early-aughts?”

She nodded as the wind picked up. I rushed to do one more thing, grabbing one of Piper’s riding helmets.

“Dad, don’t be crazy,” she laughed.

“Just wear it, god damn it!” I lacked patience. “Sorry. Humor me, okay? I have a bad feeling⁠—”

I didn’t finish my words as a window shattered above. “Get down. Put it⁠—”

Piper pulled the helmet on as we huddled under couch cushions. I heard roaring and the cracking of family room windows on the basement’s opposite side. I prayed the thick door between us and them held. Overhead, we heard a crack and a crash. It sounded both like a freight train and nothing. I went to another place, focusing on the feeling of Piper’s heartbeat as she clung to me. I cared about nothing beyond escaping this with her. I told the universe it could have me, but not her. She’s the only thing worth saving.

I held the pillow so tight around us, grateful for its security when something crashed on me overhead. I lay still and realized the object was light. Then, as soon as the tornado arrived, it left us to the sound of rain dripping all around.

“Daddy,” she said, voice tiny and frightened. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. We’re okay. We’re okay.”

I pushed up, feeling my way out. Above us, the early evening sky waited. Sprinkles hit my head. I tossed aside the ceiling panel that fell and bailed us out completely. I pulled Piper upright.

“Now I know why you always say to wear shoes,” she murmured, unable to even witness what we had survived.

Our unrecognizable house hung around us—nothing more than some walls and half a first floor. I didn’t trust any of it and knew we had to flee. We could have a gas leak or worse—it could all collapse.

“Upstairs, quickly.”

I climbed the remaining sturdy steps and pulled her out the back door.

“Brownie!” Piper sobbed. “Where is Brownie?”

On cue, the old girl popped out underneath a mountain of insulation, shaking it off. She walked over, visibly shaken, and climbed the stairs.

“Oh, now you go,” I groaned.

“Dad, the barn… it’s still standing,” Piper said as I pulled the laundry door closed and climbed onto a pile of rubble—as if any of it fucking mattered.

“Damn, it is,” I said, relieved and hoping it meant the horses were safe. “Go to the barn with the dog. I need to survey the house. It’s not safe here. Call your mom.”

“Dad, please⁠—”

“Call her,” I said. “I know you’re upset with her right now, but she’s worried sick about you and you’ll need a place to sleep.”

“What about you?”

“I will figure something out,” I said.

We always did, but standing in this heap of what used to be a custom-built ranch house felt crushing. I’d poured everything into in hopes my daughter could have the easy childhood she deserved. I thought “better late than never” on our dream to move to the country and build a quiet life. Instead, everything fell apart in an instant. Could we even afford to rebuild? I wasn’t sure. I hoped I’d been right about my umbrella policy.