Twist My Heart

1. Lila

LILA

I don't fear the storm. I fear what happens when it's gone.

The wind shifts violently as I stand alone on the empty Oklahoma field, watching the sky transform from clear blue to something alive and angry. My hair whips across my face, but I don't bother tying it back yet. I like feeling the first wild gusts, the way they announce what's coming.

My weather radio crackles with updates, but I already know what it's going to say. Supercell developing. Possible rotation. Tornado watch upgraded to a warning. I've been chasing long enough that my body can feel the barometric pressure dropping before any instrument confirms it.

I set up my main camera on the tripod, adding extra weight at the base to keep it steady. My hands move through the routine while my attention stays fixed on the approaching wall cloud. It’s beautiful in the most terrifying way—the kind of beauty Dad would have appreciated.

“This one's going to be a monster,” I whisper to myself, or maybe to him. Sometimes I'm not sure where the difference lies anymore.

The massive thunderhead blooms upward like a dark flower unfurling, anvil-shaped and towering fifty thousand feet into the atmosphere.

Beneath it, a lowering shelf cloud stretches across the horizon, its underbelly the color of a fresh bruise.

The contrast between dark storm and golden prairie makes my breath catch.

This is when I feel most alive. Not because I'm flirting with danger, like people assume, but because I'm connecting with something larger than myself. Something Dad understood.

I check my phone, where three messages from my sister wait unread. Probably more warnings about my “death wish hobby.” Emily doesn't understand why, after Dad was killed chasing the El Reno tornado thirteen years ago, I'd follow in his footsteps instead of running in the opposite direction.

The radio squawks again. “Confirmed rotation. Tornado imminent. All residents should seek shelter immediately.”

My heart races as I adjust my camera settings. Through the viewfinder, I catch the first glimpse of rotation, a subtle twisting motion in the clouds that most people would miss. But to me, it's as clear as glass.

“Come on, show yourself,” I murmur, excitement and trepidation mingling in my chest.

That's when I notice the white van barreling down the dirt road toward me, dust billowing behind it like a comet tail. Great. Another storm chaser encroaching on my spot. This happens more and more these days. Social media turning tornado chasing into a tourist attraction rather than a serious meteorological observation. It’s made my job even more dangerous.

I can’t imagine how it’s affecting chasers like Reed Timmer or the TIV team who drive into tornados head first with a trail of people behind them.

The van skids to a stop about fifty feet away, and a tall figure jumps out, an equipment bag slung over one shoulder. As he approaches, I recognize the logo on his jacket. Channel 8 News. Great. It’s not a chaser. It’s a TV weather guy.

“You need to clear out of this area immediately,” he calls, voice fighting against the wind. “This system's turning violent!”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the bulletin. I can read a radar.”

He stops about ten feet away, surprise flickering across his face as he takes me in. I know that look. The one people get when they realize the lone chaser out here isn’t who they expected. His gaze, a sharp blue against the darkening sky, narrows slightly.

“You shouldn't be out here alone.”

“I know exactly what it's doing.” I turn back to my viewfinder, adjusting the focus. “I've been tracking it since it was nothing but rain clouds over Harper County.”

The wind surges between us, carrying the first few raindrops. Heavy, cold splats that promise more. I pull my rain jacket from my pack and slip it on, zipping it to my chin.

“I'm Lucas Bennett,” he shouts over a thunderclap. “Channel 8's?—”

“I know who you are,” I interrupt. “You're the guy who got the Stillwater tornado path wrong last month.”

His face flushes, visible even in the strange green-tinted light that now bathes everything. “That was an unpredictable split. The second tornado?—”

“Was visible on velocity data five minutes before you sent your crew scrambling for shelter,” I finish for him. “The data was there for anyone who cared to look. You do know how to read a radar right? Not just point at a green screen and read off a teleprompter?”

He stares at me, jaw clenched, and I feel a twinge of guilt for being so harsh. But storm chasing isn't a game, and people like him—more concerned with dramatic camera shots than accurate forecasting—make it harder for serious chasers like me.

“You're Lila Brooks,” he says suddenly, recognition dawning on his face. “Frank Brook’s daughter, aren’t you?”

I flinch at Dad's name coming from this stranger's mouth. “What of it?”

The tornado siren in the distance begins its mournful wail, a sound that used to terrify me as a child but now just sharpens my focus. The wall cloud is rotating more vigorously now, a visible funnel beginning to take shape.

“Your father was a legend,” Lucas says, stepping closer. “His research changed the field. I studied his papers in grad school.”

“Funny way of honoring his work, getting forecasts wrong on live TV,” I mutter, but my heart isn't in the insult anymore. The storm demands my attention as the funnel cloud descends, touching down about two miles west of us.

“There she is,” I breathe, my fingers automatically adjusting settings, capturing the moment of birth.

Lucas is no longer looking at me but at the tornado, his expression a mixture of awe. “You going to chase it?”

“Am I going to chase it?” I scoff, yanking my secondary camera from its case.

“What I'm not going to do is stand here making small talk while that tornado is forming.” I glance pointedly at his Channel 8 jacket.

“Shouldn't you be warning actual people in its path instead of mansplaining tornadoes to me?”

I don't wait for his response. Time is precious, and this tornado waits for no one. I quickly collapse my tripod, securing my equipment. The wind howls around us as I zip my backpack and sling it over my shoulder.

My boots kick up dust as I reach my weathered red Silverado—Dad's truck, retrofitted with my own modifications.

I toss my gear in the passenger seat and fire up the engine, checking my radar one last time.

The supercell is intensifying, exactly as I predicted.

The tornado's path will take it northeast, toward smaller communities that might not have adequate warning systems.

Lucas appears at my window, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. “My crew's meeting me at the intersection of County Road 18?—”

“Good for you.” I put the truck in drive. “Try not to get them killed.”

I peel away, watching him shrink in my rearview mirror. Part of me feels a pang of regret for being so harsh, but I push it away. I have a job to do.

The road stretches before me, a straight line cutting through golden wheat fields toward the massive column of swirling darkness. My phone buzzes on the dash, Emily's face lighting up the screen. Perfect timing, as always.

I hit the speaker button. “Kind of busy, Em.”

“You're chasing, aren't you?” The disapproval in her tone comes through loud and clear. “The Woodward County tornado is all over the news. Tell me you're not driving straight toward it.”

I adjust my grip on the steering wheel as the wind buffets my truck. “Would you believe me if I said I was at a spa getting a facial?”

“Lila, this isn't funny. They're saying it's at least an EF-2.”

“EF-3, probably.” I can't help the excitement in my voice as I watch the tornado form through my windshield. “You should see this beast, Em. Dad would've?—”

“Don't tell me what Dad would've thought about you risking your life like this.”

I swallow hard, focusing on the road as it grows slick with rain. The tornado is moving northeast, exactly as I predicted. I need to parallel its path, close enough for good footage but not so close that I become part of the debris field.

“It's not about risk, Emily. It's about data. It's about warning systems. It's about?—”

“It's about Dad,” she finishes for me. “It's always been about Dad.”

Rain hammers against my windshield now, the wipers barely keeping up. I spot the same white van from earlier in my rearview mirror. Weather Boy is following me after all.

“I've got to go, Em. I promise I'll call you when I'm clear.”

“Lila, please?—”

I end the call, guilt gnawing at me even as my focus sharpens on the task ahead.

The tornado has fully formed now, a massive writhing funnel connecting cloud to earth.

Through my open window, I can hear its roar—like a freight train, people always say, but it's more than that. It's alive. Breathing. Hungry.

I pull onto a side road that will position me to track its movement.

My truck bounces over ruts and potholes as I race to get ahead of the storm's path. I half expect to see Weather Boy parked behind me like paparazzi, but he speeds past me a second later. He’s after the bigger flashy fish in the storm chasing pond.

The ones that will make headlines and win him a National Broadcasting Emmy. Good riddance.

The sky has darkened to an eerie greenish-black, punctuated by flashes of lightning that illuminate the landscape in freeze-frame moments of clarity. In one of those flashes, I see it. A farmhouse directly in the tornado's path, about a mile ahead.

“Shit.” I grab my radio, quickly tuning to the emergency channel. “There's a property at approximately County Road 15 and Highway 270 directly in the tornado's path.”