---

It started with a buzz.

My phone lit up on the arm of the couch, vibrating once... then again. I almost didn't look. Probably a random number. Or spam. Or a reminder I didn't want.

But when I glanced at the screen, my stomach did a little flip.

Abby Parker is calling.

I stared at the name for a second, like my phone might be lying to me. It wasn't.

I hadn't heard her voice in months — not since we moved, not since Georgia became a whole other lifetime. We used to talk every day. About frogs and recess drama and whether ketchup counted as a vegetable. And then... I stopped calling. I stopped everything.

The phone was still ringing.

I hesitated. For a second, I thought about letting it go to voicemail. What would I even say? Hey, remember me? I'm a mess now.

But my thumb moved on its own.

I answered.

"...Hello?"

There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then—

"EMILY?! Oh my gosh—finally! I've been trying to call you for weeks! I thought your number changed again or you died or you got eaten by a swamp gator or something—"

I smiled. Actually smiled.

"Hi, Abby, I'm okay," I said, even though that was a half-truth at best.

"I figured. I didn't wanna bug you if something serious was going on. But I've missed you like crazy. Nobody here can catch frogs the way you do."

I laughed quietly. "You just say that because I caught the big one behind the library."

"Twice!"

We both laughed for a second. It felt warm. Real.

"So," I said, curling my knees up on the couch. "How's Georgia? Is it still hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk?"

"Ugh, yes. It's a sauna down here. We had three power outages in one week 'cause everyone's cranking their A/C. The frogs love it, though. The ditches are full."

I smiled. "I kinda miss that. The sounds, the smells, even the swampy air."

"You miss the mosquitoes?" she teased.

"No," I said immediately. "Never that."

We both giggled.

I hesitated a second, then asked, "Have you... have you seen the old house? Mine, I mean."

"Yeah," Abby said. Her voice softened. "Your uncle lives there now, right?"

"Yeah. Uncle Fred."

"It looks the same from the outside," she said. "Still has that broken porch step you always tripped on. And the swing's still in the tree."

My throat tightened. "Really?"

"Yeah. He even planted flowers along the fence. Marigolds, I think? It's nice."

I nodded slowly, even though she couldn't see me. "I used to hate that house... but sometimes I miss it. Not the stuff that happened in it. Just... the parts before all that."

Abby was quiet for a second.

"I get it," she said gently. "Places hold memories. Even the bad ones sometimes come with a few good pieces."

I swallowed hard. "Yeah."

There was a pause after we talked about the house. Not awkward, just quiet. Abby didn't rush to fill it. She never did. That was one of the things I always liked about her.

"I'm really glad you called," I said finally. My voice came out softer than I meant.

"I missed you," she said. "Like... a lot."

I took a breath. The kind of breath you take before saying something that might change the whole mood.

"Abby?"

"Yeah?"

"There's... something I should tell you."

Her tone changed immediately. "Okay. What's going on?"

I didn't answer right away. I stared at a spot on the floor until it blurred, trying to find the words. How do you even say it? There's no casual way to drop that kind of truth.

"I'm... I'm pregnant."

Dead silence.

Not the kind where the call dropped, but the kind where time hangs still — waiting.

"Oh," Abby said. Just that. One small syllable, and then nothing.

I rushed to fill the space. "I didn't plan it. It wasn't—it wasn't something I wanted to happen. And it's been really hard, and I didn't tell you because I didn't know how, and—"

"Emily."

Her voice was quiet, but firm enough to stop my rambling.

"You don't have to explain it all right now."

I let out a shaky breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"I'm just... really scared, Abby."

"I know."

"And I feel like I lost everything. You, home, who I was... even my body doesn't feel like mine anymore. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm pretending everything's okay but it's not."

There was a sound, like maybe she was wiping at her eyes.

"I wish I could hug you right now," she said.

That broke me.

I didn't cry loud. Just quiet tears, the kind that make your shoulders shake and your voice go silent. The kind that feel like release.

"I'm still here, Emily," she whispered. "No matter what. And you're not ruined, okay? You're still you. Even if everything feels upside down."

I wiped my face with my sleeve, eyes blurry. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For being the one thing I haven't lost."

"So..." Abby's voice was soft now. Like she didn't want to push but couldn't help asking. "How many weeks?"

I sniffled and wiped my face again with the corner of my sleeve.

"About twelve," I said. "Almost thirteen, I think."

"Wow," she breathed. "That's... that's real."

"Yeah," I whispered. "It's real."

There was a pause on her end — not awkward, just thoughtful. Like she was trying to picture it. Me. With a baby. Like maybe the image didn't fit the version of me she still had in her head — the frog-catching, ketchup-on-everything version.

"I don't even know what to say," she admitted. "I mean, part of me wants to cry, and part of me wants to punch something for you."

I gave a tired laugh. "That's kinda how I feel too."

"Do you know what you're gonna do?"

I didn't answer right away. My eyes wandered to the window, where the sky had started turning orange with evening light.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "Some days I think I do. And then I wake up the next day and everything changes again."

"Well, whatever you choose..." Abby paused again. "You're still my best friend. Even if you become a mom. Or don't. Or if you decide to raise chickens and name them after breakfast foods."

That made me smile through the lump in my throat. "I already met one named Eggatha."

"See? You're halfway there."

I looked at the sky again. The orange glow from earlier had deepened, warped — shifting into this pale, sickly green. The kind of color that makes your stomach feel off, even if you don't know why.

I didn't say anything at first. Just stared out the window, watching the clouds pull tight across the sky like stretched fabric.

"You still there?" Abby asked.

"Yeah," I said, a little slower now. "The sky just changed color."

"What, like dark?"

"No," I said. "Like... green."

There was a pause.

"Oh. Yikes. You should probably tell your mom. That sounds like tornado weather."

My chest tightened a little. I remembered Georgia storms — the loud ones, the ones that shook the windows and made me hide in the closet with a flashlight and Lily's stuffed rabbit. But Minnesota storms? I didn't know their rules.

"I'm sure it's fine," I said automatically. But I didn't believe it.

"You got a basement, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay good. Just—don't ignore it, okay? You remember what happened to that trailer park out by Okefenokee? Green skies never mean anything cute."

I gave a quiet laugh, but it came out shakier than I meant.

"I forgot how weirdly specific your weather trauma is."

"Someone has to be the voice of reason here."

Outside, a faint rumble rolled across the neighborhood. Not thunder exactly — more like the sky clearing its throat.

"I'll tell my mom," I said. "Just in case."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Good." Abby paused. "And... thanks for telling me, Em. About everything."

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "You're still my best friend."

"Forever?"

"Forever."

The wind picked up outside. Trees started to sway. A lawn chair toppled over somewhere across the street.

"Okay," Abby said. "You go do storm prep. And text me later. I mean it."

"I will."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

I ended the call, still staring at that green sky — and for the first time all day, my stomach sank in a way that had nothing to do with morning sickness.

We barely made it down the basement stairs before the first loud CRACK echoed through the house.

It sounded like something huge had dropped from the sky and hit the roof. Then another. And another.

CRACK. THUMP. CRACK.

Hail.

Big ones.

The kind that made you think the ceiling was going to cave in.

Lily was clutching Buttons to her chest, her eyes wide with fear. He was wrapped like a furry caterpillar in his blanket, ears flat, tail twitching in panic.

"Is it the tornado?" she asked, her voice high and thin.

"I—I don't know," I said, even though my heart was pounding so hard I couldn't think straight. "I think it's just hail."

We sat down on the floor in the corner behind the old couch, away from the tiny window wells. Mom was in the middle of the room setting the weather radio on a chair. Sam was trying to look brave, but even he jumped at the next BOOM from above.

And then—shatter.

Glass. Somewhere upstairs. A window, maybe the living room. It broke fast and loud like an explosion.

Lily screamed and ducked into my side, arms tight around my waist.

"It's okay, it's okay," I whispered, even though I didn't believe it. "We're okay."

But the sound kept coming — a wild chorus of hailstones battering the house, rattling vents, cracking against siding like they wanted in. Like they were trying to break through every wall between us and the sky.

I couldn't stop shaking. My hand was on my stomach, instinctively, protectively.

Lily was crying now. Not loudly — just soft sobs, trembling against my arm.

"I don't want to fly away," she whispered. "I don't want to be like the people on the news."

"You won't," I said, my voice barely above a breath. "We're not going anywhere."

But the truth?

I wasn't so sure.

The hail kept pounding the house like fists from the sky. Every few seconds, another burst of glass or cracking wood made it feel like the roof might peel off at any moment.

And then I heard it.

Low at first. A deep rumble, far off — almost like thunder. But it didn't fade like thunder.

It grew.

And it moved.

I went still, every muscle in my body tightening. The sound was getting louder — a rolling, growling roar, like a freight train was barreling straight through the neighborhood.

My breath caught.

No one else had heard it yet.

Lily was curled into my side, her face hidden in my hoodie. Sam was sitting rigid across from us, eyes on Mom, who had gone pale.

I looked at her.

"Do you hear that?" I whispered.

She froze for half a second, then slowly turned the volume up on the weather radio.

Static.

Then: "...confirmed funnel... northeast of Bloomington... moving fast..."

The voice crackled and cut out.

I grabbed Lily tighter. "It's close."

"I'm scared," she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut.

I pulled the blanket up over both of us, even though I knew it wouldn't stop anything. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

The sound grew louder. It filled the basement — not inside, but above us, around us, like the world itself was roaring.

Like the sky was alive and angry and coming down.

And for a moment, I couldn't breathe.

The sound was growing — deep, steady, rolling in like thunder that wouldn't stop. It was low at first, but now it filled my ears. My chest. My whole body.

It sounded like a train.

But it didn't feel like a train.

"Do we live near some train tracks?" I yelled, trying to keep my voice steady, but it cracked anyway.

No one answered right away.

Lily clutched my hoodie tighter. "What? What's happening?"

Mom turned to me, her expression frozen. "No. Not near."

My stomach dropped.

The rumbling kept getting louder, vibrating through the floor now — like something massive and angry was moving closer.

Sam stood up too fast and nearly tripped over the folded blanket on the ground. "That's not thunder."

"No," Mom said, more to herself than any of us.

Lily was shaking against me. "Is it the tornado?"

"I don't know," I said, voice trembling. "I think— I think it might be—"

CRACK.

Something huge slammed against the side of the house. Or the roof. Or both.

We all ducked lower.

"I don't wanna die," Lily sobbed, her hands clinging to my side.

"You're not," I said, holding her like I could block the wind with my arms. "You're not. I've got you. I promise."

But I didn't know if that was true.

Because that train sound was still coming.

And no one else could hear it.

Just me.

Just then... the sound stopped.

The rumble, the crashing, the roar — it all vanished like someone had flipped a switch.

Even the hail was gone.

One second, the house sounded like it was being torn apart. The next, there was nothing but soft, steady rain tapping the windows above.

No wind. No thunder. No train.

Just... quiet.

I didn't move.

No one did.

We just sat there in the basement, frozen in that eerie silence, like we were afraid to breathe in case the noise came back.

"Is it over?" Sam asked, his voice barely audible.

Mom looked up toward the ceiling, then to the weather radio. The signal was still cutting in and out with bursts of static and faint voices.

She didn't answer right away.

"I don't hear it anymore," I said, still holding Lily, whose breathing was shallow and fast.

Lily peeked out from under the blanket. "Did it go away?"

Mom stood slowly and crossed the room to the narrow basement window. She didn't get too close, just enough to glance up at the sky.

"I think... we're in the eye of it," she murmured.

"The what?" Sam asked, standing now too.

"The calm part," she said. "Sometimes, if a storm's big enough... there's a calm in the middle before it gets worse again."

My heart dropped.

So it wasn't over. Not yet.

But for a moment, the house was still.

Dripping water from somewhere upstairs echoed faintly. Buttons let out a low, uncertain meow from under Lily's arm, like he didn't trust the silence either.

None of us did.

SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—

The radio let out a sudden high-pitched shriek of static that made everyone jump. Lily screamed and covered her ears. I flinched so hard I almost knocked the blanket off both of us.

Mom rushed over and smacked the volume dial.

Then, through the fuzz, the voice returned—clearer this time, urgent and fast:

"...National Weather Service confirms a tornado on the ground northeast of Bloomington, moving east at forty-five miles per hour. Rotation has been reported in multiple locations. Take cover immediately. Do not leave shelter. Repeat: do not leave shelter."

The room went dead quiet.

Just the sound of the rain.

Then—

BANG.

The basement door slammed open upstairs.

We all jumped again.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs.

Dad burst through the basement door, soaked from the knees down, face pale but focused. "Everyone okay?" he asked, eyes sweeping the room like he expected to see a hole in the wall.

"We're okay," Mom said quickly. "Window broke, but we're all down here."

He nodded, exhaling hard. "Sky's still green. Trees are bending like crazy. I don't like it."

"What about the funnel?" Mom asked.

"I didn't see it, but it feels close," he said. "Like it's out there somewhere."

Lily was holding onto me like a baby koala. Her face was pressed against my arm, but I could tell she was listening to every word.

Sam looked like he wanted to be brave. But his eyes flicked toward the stairs.

I didn't realize I was still shaking until Dad crouched in front of me and put a hand on my shoulder.

"You okay, kiddo?"

I nodded, but I don't think it was very convincing.

Because even though the radio had gone quiet again...

I was still listening for the train.

And I couldn't tell if it was coming back.

For a moment, it felt like everything had slowed down — like we were holding our breath and waiting for someone to say it was okay to exhale.

Then the whole house shuddered.

Not a gentle shake. A thud from above, like something massive had dropped onto the roof or slammed against the wall.

Lily screamed again and grabbed my arm so tight I winced.

The lights flickered once... twice... and then went out.

Total darkness, except for the emergency flashlight Mom had clipped to the back of a folding chair. It cast long, warped shadows across the walls, making everything look unfamiliar.

"Stay down," Dad barked. "Don't go near the stairs."

Another gust of wind howled above us. I swore I heard something creaking — groaning — like the beams of the house were arguing with the storm.

And then—

"HEY! IS ANYONE HOME? HELLO?"

A voice. Shouting.

Outside.

We all froze.

It sounded like it was coming from the backyard. Not panicked — but urgent. Frantic.

"Who is that?" Sam whispered.

"I don't know," Mom said, already moving toward the base of the stairs.

Dad grabbed her arm. "You're not going up there alone."

"Who would be outside right now?" I asked, barely breathing.

The voice came again — louder this time.

"I SAW IT! IT'S HEADED THIS WAY! YOU GOTTA GET DOWN—"

And then the voice cut off with a sharp crack of wind, like the storm had swallowed it whole.

Lily started crying again, quiet and shaking. "Why are they out there? What if—what if they get sucked up?"

Dad turned to Mom, serious. "We can't open that door again. Not unless it's safe."

"But what if they need help?" I asked, heart hammering.

Nobody had an answer.

Because we didn't know if that voice was still out there...

...or if it had been taken.

We sat there frozen, the wind screaming above us, the radio silent again, and that voice—

"HELLO?! I SAW IT COMING THIS WAY—PLEASE!"

It hit me like a slap.

My breath caught in my throat.

"I know that voice," I said, barely louder than a whisper.

Dad turned. "What?"

"I—I think it's Mr. Peterson."

"The principal?" Sam asked, confused.

"Our neighbor," I said, heart racing. "He has chickens—he's the one with Stanley!"

Nobody else said anything, but I could see it on their faces: the same dread I was feeling.

Lily blinked through her tears. "Is he gonna be okay?"

Another gust slammed into the house, rattling the vents. The basement window vibrated in its frame. Somewhere above us, something crashed again—maybe another branch, or worse.

The flashlight's beam wobbled as Mom gripped it tighter. Dad moved toward the bottom of the stairs, torn between fear and instinct.

"Do we let him in?" I asked.

Mom shook her head slowly. "We don't know where he is. Opening the door right now could get someone killed."

"But if it is Mr. Peterson..."

We all looked toward the ceiling.

The voice didn't come again.

Just the storm.

Just the waiting.

And the horrible silence that came after knowing someone you knew—someone real—might be out there in it.

I squeezed Lily's hand tighter. My heart felt like it was trying to climb up my throat.

And somewhere, behind all the thunder and wind, I was still listening for that train.

We all stayed huddled in the basement, waiting — listening.

The flashlight buzzed faintly in Mom's hand. The only other sound was the soft, unsteady tapping of rain above us now. No more hail. No more wind shaking the walls. Just... rain.

And then, suddenly, the radio crackled back to life.

"—again, that's a tornado warning for Hennepin and surrounding counties. Take shelter. Stay away from windows. Repeat—"

The voice was breathless. Rushed.

We all leaned in.

The man speaking sounded like he'd been yelling — or running.

"This was... we don't have full confirmation yet, but we believe the funnel cloud may have—disappeared. Just... vanished. No dissipation pattern, no tracking. It was large. Very large. And then—gone."

Gone?

Mom turned the volume up a notch.

"We don't have an explanation at this time. We're reviewing radar footage. Please remain sheltered until further notice. Do not exit basements or storm shelters yet. We're just as surprised as you are."

Then a short pause. A nervous breath from the weatherman.

"We'll continue broadcasting as updates come in. Stay safe, folks. We'll be right back."

And then the radio fell silent again.

Just the soft hiss of background static.

Dad stared at it, then at Mom. "That doesn't happen."

"Storms don't just disappear," she said quietly.

"But it did," I whispered. "Didn't it?"

No one moved.

Outside, the rain fell gently, like the sky had forgotten what it just did.

We waited a few more minutes, just to be sure.

No wind. No more rumbling. Just that strange, quiet rain. The kind that didn't feel like a storm anymore—just a reminder that one had been here.

Finally, Dad stood and crossed to the stairs.

"I'm going up first," he said firmly. "Stay down here until I say."

Mom nodded, still holding the flashlight like it was a weapon. Sam didn't move. Lily clung to my side, eyes wide and glassy.

The stairs creaked as Dad went up slowly, one cautious step at a time. The basement door opened. We all held our breath.

Nothing.

No wind, no screaming, no crash.

Just his footsteps above us.

Then his voice. "It's clear."

He didn't sound relieved. He sounded confused.

We all stood together, slowly rising as if afraid the house might still collapse around us. I took Lily's hand, and we crept up the stairs behind Mom.

The living room was a mess. Glass from the broken window sparkled across the floor. One of the porch chairs had flown in through it and now lay half-crushed near the couch. Curtains flapped like ghosts in the rain-cooled breeze.

But it wasn't worse than that. No roof gone. No walls missing. Just damage. Just chaos.

We stepped carefully around the mess.

Then I heard it.

A voice.

Weak. From outside.

"Hello...? Anyone?"

I ran to the front door and flung it open.

There, soaked to the bone and leaning heavily against the porch railing, was Mr. Peterson.

His shirt was ripped. He had a gash above one eyebrow. Mud streaked his arms. He looked like he'd climbed out of a battlefield.

"Emily," he breathed. "You're okay."

I nodded, speechless.

He swayed a little. "I think... Stanley saved my life."

I stared at him.

"What?"

Mr. Peterson nodded, still clutching the porch rail like it was the only thing holding him up.

"Stanley," he said again, as if that explained everything. "The rooster."

I blinked. "How can a rooster save your life?"

He gave a weak, crooked smile. "He crowed."

"...They do that."

"No—he crowed weird. Loud. Over and over. Wouldn't stop. I thought maybe a hawk got into the coop or something. So I went outside."

"You went out in a tornado because your rooster was yelling weird?"

He shrugged like that part didn't need explaining. "When I got outside, I saw it. The funnel. It was—Emily, it was huge. Headed straight for us."

My mouth went dry.

"If he hadn't started screaming," Mr. Peterson said, his voice shaky, "I wouldn't have seen it. Would've stayed inside. And that part of the roof caved in—just gone. I barely made it out. Got hit by a branch. Think I blacked out."

He looked down at his torn sleeve. "Next thing I remember, I was crawling across your yard. I didn't even know where I was going."

I just stood there, staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

"And people say chickens are dumb," I mumbled.

He laughed once — sharp and short — then winced and grabbed his ribs.

"Okay, laughing hurts. Noted."

Just as Mom helped Mr. Peterson through the door, the weather radio crackled to life again.

Everyone froze.

Then the voice came through—clear this time, steady but tired, like the man on the other end had been holding his breath for hours.

"This is the National Weather Service with an update for the Hennepin County area. We have now confirmed that the tornado is no longer active. The storm cell has broken apart and is moving east with decreasing intensity."

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"We're still investigating the abrupt dissipation, but radar shows no further rotation in the area. First responders are now being dispatched to assess damage and assist those affected. If you are safe, please remain where you are until power and roadways are cleared. Do not attempt to travel unless necessary."

There was a pause—just long enough for the weight of it to settle.

"Again: the tornado is gone. The threat has passed."

Another pause. A softer tone.

"We thank you for staying strong through what has been a harrowing and unpredictable afternoon. Please check in on your neighbors, your loved ones, and yourselves. We're lucky tonight. Don't forget that."

The radio went quiet.

No static. No screeching.

Just rain, still tapping softly on the broken glass and roof tiles.

I looked around at my family—at Mr. Peterson, bleeding and muddy in our doorway. At Lily, curled up on the couch with Buttons in her arms. At Dad, who hadn't said a word since the broadcast. And at Mom, who was already digging through the first-aid kit.

The tornado was gone.

But it didn't feel over.

Not yet.