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The sky was blue again by morning.

Not the perfect, cloudless kind — but the kind that looked like it had cried all night and was finally starting to breathe again.

We stepped outside one by one, slow and quiet, like we were scared the storm might come back if we moved too fast.

Shingles littered the yard like broken puzzle pieces. A downed tree limb had crushed part of the garden fence. One of our trash bins had disappeared completely — probably halfway to Wisconsin by now. The porch window was still broken, and the curtains fluttered through the jagged gap like they were trying to escape.

Mom was already sweeping up glass.

Dad checked the roof with a flashlight and binoculars.

Sam tried to look busy moving sticks into a pile, but he was mostly just poking things.

I stood on the porch, barefoot, holding a plastic bucket I didn't remember grabbing. The wind had knocked over one of the flower pots, and the marigolds inside were still clinging to the soil like they didn't know they'd been uprooted.

Lily came outside last, wrapped in a blanket that dragged behind her like a cape. Buttons slipped out from under her arm the second the screen door creaked open and darted back inside, tail puffed like he was still waiting for hail to fall.

"Traitor," Lily muttered, watching him disappear.

She pulled the blanket tighter and shuffled onto the porch beside me, bare feet and all.

"I don't like the sky anymore," she said quietly.

I nodded. "Me either."

"I think the rooster's immortal," I whispered.

Mom gave me a tired smile. "Well, someone has to rebuild the coop."

Across the yard, Mr. Peterson gave a little two-fingered salute and started down his porch steps, limping slightly but determined.

"I'm coming over," he called.

"You should be resting," Mom called back.

"Can't. Martha said I'm not allowed in the kitchen while she's disinfecting everything. Said I'm 'contaminated by nature.' So. Here I am."

I couldn't help but grin.

He crossed the yard slowly, hands in his pockets, a few loose bandages on his arm catching the morning light. Stanley strutted halfway after him, then stopped to inspect a patch of overturned mulch like the storm was just a minor inconvenience.

As Mr. Peterson reached the edge of our porch, he looked around at the mess. "Could've been worse," he said, voice gravelly. "Much worse."

I nodded. "Could've been you."

He met my eyes, and for a second, neither of us said anything.

Then he nodded. "Yeah. It almost was."

Mr. Peterson glanced over his shoulder at what used to be a chicken coop.

Half the roof was gone. One side had collapsed entirely, and pieces of wire fencing were tangled in a bush nearby. A plastic waterer had rolled into the garden and come to a dignified stop in a patch of dandelions. Stanley was pecking near it like nothing had changed.

"Well," Mr. Peterson said, scratching his head. "She's definitely not laying eggs in there anytime soon."

"I'll grab the toolbox," Dad said.

Mom shot him a look.

"What? He shouldn't be lifting anything with that shoulder. I'll do the lifting."

"You're not great with hammers," Mom muttered.

"I am now."

Sam perked up. "Can I help too?"

"Sure," Mr. Peterson said. "If you can handle splinters and chicken poop."

"I've lived with Sam for years," I said. "He's trained."

That earned me a soft elbow from Sam.

A few minutes later, we were all in the backyard — rakes, gloves, screwdrivers, a couple bent nails, and the last of the coffee from the emergency thermos. Mr. Peterson sat on a milk crate giving instructions while the rest of us played storm cleanup meets home renovation.

Even Lily got into it, gathering twigs and pretending to assign names to each surviving chicken.

"This one's Princess Scrambles," she said proudly. "And the other one with the mean eyes is—"

"Stanley," I said. "That's always been Stanley."

"Oh. Well. He's still mean."

Stanley fluffed his feathers like he heard and agreed.

Sam hammered in the last nail — slightly crooked — and took a proud step back.

"Good enough," Dad said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Mr. Peterson nodded. "It's not pretty, but it'll hold."

"It's kind of lopsided," Sam pointed out.

"It's got character," I said.

Lily stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the structure like a tiny forewoman.

"I think," she declared, "the coop should be more like a castle."

We all looked at her.

She pointed toward the doorway. "It needs a little flag. And maybe a moat. Chickens deserve a fortress."

Stanley let out a huffy bawk from behind her.

"She's not wrong," Mr. Peterson said with a grin. "Stanley does have a bit of a royal attitude."

"I could paint a little sign," Lily offered. "Like a name for it. Castle Eggsworth!"

That got a full laugh from me, even Mom cracked a smile.

"I love that," I said. "All hail the queen hens of Castle Eggsworth."

"And King Stanley the Terrible," Lily added dramatically, raising a stick like a scepter.

Stanley squawked again, clearly approving of his new title.

It wasn't perfect. The new frame was crooked. The roof was salvaged plywood that didn't match. But by the time the sun was high and the wind had faded, the coop was standing again.

Alive.

Like us.

Mr. Peterson started talking about something, but I wasn't able to listen, because my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Jasmine calling.

I answered right away. "Hey."

"Emily! Finally. Are you okay? Is everyone okay?" Her voice came fast and tight — the kind of voice you only get when someone's been holding their breath too long.

"We're okay," I said, glancing around at the mess in the yard. "Window's broken, some damage to the house. But we're fine."

"Oh my gosh," she breathed. "I've been watching the coverage on Channel 5. They've got the helicopter out flying over the damage path."

I sat down on the porch step without even realizing it.

"They showed Evergreen," Jasmine went on. "Emily... it's the weirdest thing."

"What is?"

She lowered her voice, like even saying it felt strange.

"The tornado's damage path — it tore up everything west of you. Trees snapped, houses with no roofs, entire blocks just wrecked. But when they showed Evergreen? It looked like it just... stopped."

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean they zoomed in from the air — and it's like the storm hit a wall. The trees around your neighborhood are still standing. A few shingles here and there, yeah, but it's nothing compared to what's behind it. The reporter even said it. Like, 'It's as if the tornado skipped this neighborhood entirely.'"

Goosebumps ran up my arms.

"Do they know why?" I asked quietly.

"No. They're calling it a fluke. A 'fortunate anomaly.' But Emily... I saw that path. It was coming for you. Then it just... didn't."

I looked toward the edge of the yard, where the fence stood untouched. Where the storm should have kept going.

"Maybe someone up there likes chickens," I said softly.

Jasmine gave a small laugh. "Guess Castle Eggsworth has divine protection."

But I didn't laugh.

Because I remembered that train sound.

That feeling.

And part of me wasn't sure it was over.

Not really.

As Jasmine kept talking, I noticed something in the sky — a faint buzzing at first, then the low thump-thump-thump of rotor blades.

I looked up.

"KSTP's helicopter is flying right over us," I said, shielding my eyes from the sun.

"Yeah," Jasmine said quickly, "I think I see you on TV. Hang on—yeah! They're showing Evergreen again. That's your street!"

"Really?" I stood up, brushing dirt off my shorts. "Hold on—should I wave?"

"I mean, if you want to be famous," she teased.

I raised my arm and gave the helicopter a big, goofy wave. "Can you see it?"

There was a pause on her end. Then:

"YES! Oh my gosh, is that really you waving right now?"

I laughed, kind of embarrassed but also weirdly thrilled. "Guess I'm on the news."

"You're totally on the news," Jasmine said. "You're like... Post-Storm Girl of the Year."

I grinned and dropped my hand. "Great. Now the whole Twin Cities knows I have bedhead."

Suddenly, I heard the screen door creak open behind me.

Lily came running out barefoot, spotted me waving, and immediately joined in — both arms up, waving hard at the sky like it was a parade float instead of a news chopper.

"Is that Lily?" Jasmine asked.

I glanced at her beside me and smiled. "Yeah. She saw me and had to get in on the action."

"She's waving like she thinks they'll throw candy."

"Honestly? Wouldn't be the weirdest thing that's happened this week."

We stood there a moment longer, waving in silence.

The helicopter circled once more, then started drifting east — its sound growing distant.

Lily slowly lowered her arms. "Do you think they saw me?"

"I think the whole city just saw you."

She grinned.

And for a second... things felt normal again.

Lily skipped back inside once the helicopter disappeared over the trees, already talking to herself about whether chickens liked being on TV.

I sat back down on the porch step, phone still pressed to my ear.

"Hey, Emily?" Jasmine said after a pause.

"Yeah?"

Her voice softened. "That tornado... it really scared you, didn't it?"

I didn't answer right away.

Because yeah. It did.

Not just the storm. Not just the hail or the sound of the train or the shattered window.

It was how helpless I felt. How fast things could change. How close everything came to being gone.

"Yeah," I said finally. "It did."

Jasmine didn't try to fill the silence. She let it be there, like a friend who actually knows when to stop talking.

"I keep thinking about what you told me before," she said quietly. "About everything that happened. With Trevor. The baby. All of it."

I swallowed hard.

"You don't have to talk about it," she added quickly. "I just... I want you to know I haven't forgotten. And I'm still here. Even if you don't feel like saying anything."

I stared out across the yard. The coop stood crooked but solid in the distance. Stanley pecked at something invisible near the fence, acting like nothing had ever happened.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I admitted. "With any of this."

"I don't think you're supposed to," she said. "Not yet. You're just supposed to survive it. One part at a time."

Before I could answer Jasmine, my phone buzzed again — this time with another incoming call.

I glanced down.

Mia.

I sighed. "Hey, Jas? Mia's calling. I should pick up."

"Of course," Jasmine said quickly. "Go talk to her. Just... text me later, okay?"

"I will."

"And Emily?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad you're still here."

My chest tightened, but I smiled. "Me too."

I ended the call and answered Mia right away.

"Hey—"

"OH MY GOSH," she said immediately. "Are you okay? I just saw you and Lily on TV!"

I let out a small laugh. "Yeah, we're fine."

"You were waving like you were trying to signal aliens."

"I was being polite," I said. "To the helicopter."

"I swear, it zoomed in right on you two. You looked like one of those awkward 'caught on camera' moments."

"Thanks."

"But seriously," she said, her voice softening. "That tornado looked terrifying."

"It was," I admitted. "The hail broke a window. We were in the basement for what felt like forever."

"They're showing all this footage on FOX 9," Mia said. "It's bad. A whole strip mall near Eden Prairie is just... gone. Trees everywhere. But Evergreen barely got touched."

"I know. Jasmine said the same thing. It's weird."

"I'm glad you're okay," Mia added. "I kept thinking about you the whole time. It was just—like, what if something happened and I didn't even get to say—"

"I'm still here," I said gently. "Lily too."

"Good," she said. "Because I wasn't ready to lose you."

Later that night, the smell of charcoal drifted through the backyard like a peace offering from the universe.

Dad had rolled out the old grill, poking at it with a pair of tongs like it owed him money. Across the yard, Mr. Peterson had set up his own, smaller grill — one he claimed had "character" but looked more like a repurposed science experiment.

"Alright," Dad called out, clapping his hands. "Let's settle this once and for all."

"Winner gets bragging rights until the next natural disaster," Mr. Peterson replied, flipping a piece of chicken with the confidence of a man who'd survived a tornado and raised poultry.

Mom leaned over to me, whispering, "This is what happens when two middle-aged men can't emotionally process trauma."

I snorted.

Lily was seated at the picnic table, kicking her legs back and forth while holding a paper plate and already demanding taste tests like a judge on a cooking show. "I want a sample from both. No burnt pieces!"

"Why are they making chicken of all things?" Sam asked.

"They both claim it's ironic," I said. "I think it's slightly disturbing."

Stanley clucked in the distance, clearly offended by the entire event.

Mr. Peterson waved his tongs toward the porch. "Stanley knows he's safe. I only cook store-bought."

"Yeah," Dad called back. "For now."

Everyone laughed — real, relaxed laughter.

I watched as both of them were hard at cooking — Dad flipping his chicken like he was on a mission, and Mr. Peterson hovering over his grill with a spray bottle and a meat thermometer like he was defusing a bomb.

They were completely locked in. Focused. Competitive in the way only dads and neighbors could be, especially after surviving something big.

And honestly?

It was kind of perfect.

The porch light buzzed overhead, casting everything in a warm glow. The smell of grilled meat and lighter fluid filled the air, mixing with the damp scent of grass and pine.

For a moment, no one talked about the storm. No one looked at the broken fence or the half-splintered coop. It was just laughter, clinking plates, and Lily walking around with a clipboard she definitely made herself, pretending to "score" their technique.

Mom sat nearby with a cup of lemonade and that look on her face — the one she wore when things finally felt okay again, even if just for a while.

Stanley watched everything from the coop, feathers puffed, judging us all like royalty.

And me?

I just sat there, soaking it all in — the smells, the sounds, the strange peace of it.

Once the chicken was done, both grills gave one last hiss of surrender, and the proud chefs placed their masterpieces on opposite ends of the picnic table — like dueling entries at the world's most casual cook-off.

Golden-brown thighs, drumsticks, and breasts filled two platters. One was garnished with sprigs of rosemary. The other had a drizzle of some mystery sauce Dad refused to explain.

Lily hovered with her clipboard, dramatically pretending to sniff each dish. "Hmm... interesting... very juicy appearance..."

Before she could declare anything, the back door swung open.

Martha stepped out carrying a steaming blueberry pie, still warm from the oven, wrapped in a kitchen towel with little chickens on it.

"I thought I'd bring something sweet to finish it off," she said with a smile.

A beat later, our own door opened.

Mom stepped out with a matching pie pan.

"I had the same idea," she said, holding up her own perfectly golden-crusted apple pie like it was a prize.

Everyone blinked.

Then laughed.

"Of course you both made pie," I muttered.

"It's genetic," Dad said, reaching for a fork. "Some people run from storms. We bake."

"I vote we judge the pies after we finish judging the chicken," Lily said, setting down her clipboard and grabbing her fork like a sword.

The table filled with plates, laughter, and little arguments over who used too much seasoning and which pie was "technically more summery."

****

As plates clinked and forks scraped up the last bits of chicken and pie, the sky deepened into that soft blue-gray just before the stars peek out.

I leaned back on the picnic bench, full, warm, and finally starting to feel something close to... okay.

"Hey," I said, breaking the lull in conversation. "What are we doing for the Fourth of July?"

Everyone looked up.

"The Fourth?" Sam asked through a mouthful of chicken.

"Yeah," I said. "It's only, like... a week away?"

"I can't believe it's that close already," Mom said, wiping her hands with a napkin. "Feels like summer just started."

"Time flies when having fun" I muttered.

Dad smirked. "Well, as long as there are no more tornadoes, I was thinking we could check out Red, White, and Boom! in Minneapolis. Big fireworks show along the river, live music, food trucks—the whole deal."

"Oooh, I wanna go," Lily said. "Can we get glow sticks again?"

"We still have three in the junk drawer," Mom said. "They don't glow anymore, but they're emotionally supportive."

Martha laughed. "We usually stay in and light sparklers in the yard. Stanley hates fireworks."

"Stanley hates everything," I pointed out.

"He has strong opinions," Mr. Peterson said with a nod.

I looked around the table — at Lily, already talking about red-white-and-blue cupcakes; at Mom, quietly sipping her lemonade; at Sam, sneaking seconds of both pies when he thought no one noticed.

And then I said what I hadn't let myself say since the storm.

"I kind of want to do something special this year. Not huge. Just... different. Something that feels like starting over."

No one said anything right away.

But Mom reached across the table and touched my hand gently. "We'll figure something out."

And I believed her.

As the laughter started to die down and everyone leaned back in their seats, too full to move, Dad looked over at Lily, who still had her clipboard balanced on her lap.

"So," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Who won the contest?"

Lily straightened up like she'd been waiting for the official moment all night.

"No winner," she said with complete authority. "You both won."

Dad raised an eyebrow. Mr. Peterson gave a dramatic gasp.

"And the same for the pies," Lily added, scribbling something on her paper for effect. "Both delicious. Both perfect. No losers tonight."

We all smiled.

And somehow, that felt exactly right.