10. Jonah
JONAH
There's a strange kind of silence that follows destruction. Not true quiet, but the absence of what should be there. No birds singing. No insects buzzing. Just the soft patter of rain on wreckage and the occasional groan of settling debris.
I pick my way through what used to be someone's life, boots crunching on shattered glass and splintered wood.
The farmhouse is completely gone leaving only the concrete foundation and a scattering of belongings too heavy or too lucky to be carried away.
A cast iron skillet. A waterlogged photo album.
A child's bicycle, twisted like modern art.
The first responders arrived fifteen minutes ago. Local sheriff's deputies and volunteer firefighters who've seen this before, too many times as they search for survivors or bodies.
I kneel in the mud, my hand tentatively reaching toward the shivering golden retriever huddled against what remains of a wooden porch swing. The animal's fur is matted with dirt and debris, a small cut visible above one eye, but otherwise it seems miraculously unharmed.
“Hey there,” I whisper, keeping my voice low and gentle. “It's okay. You're safe now.”
The dog whimpers, pressing itself lower to the ground. Its gaze flicks frantically between me and the chaos around us—the flashing lights, first responders shouting, the shattered remains of what used to be its home.
“I know,” I offer softly, slowly extending my hand, palm up. “Everything’s changed. It’s scary.”
I’ve never been particularly good with animals.
My apartment doesn’t allow pets, and my childhood was noticeably lacking in anything with fur thanks to my mother’s allergies.
But something about this dog—the fear, the confusion—hits deeper than I expect.
It survived when its entire world was torn apart.
The dog inches forward, nose twitching as it cautiously sniffs my outstretched fingers. I remain still, hardly daring to breathe. After what feels like an eternity, a warm, rough tongue tentatively licks my hand.
“That's it,” I encourage softly. “Good dog.”
I notice a collar half-buried under its matted fur. Slowly, carefully, I reach to turn the metal tag to see the engraving. “Max,” I read aloud. The dog's ears perk up at the sound of his name. “Hello, Max.”
A flicker of movement pulls my attention as Lila approaches, deep in conversation with a sheriff’s deputy. Their faces are grim, their words too low to catch from here. I give Max one last pat before standing, my knees protesting after crouching in the mud so long.
“Any sign of the family?” I ask as they get closer, unable to hide the dread in my tone.
Lila keeps her expression neutral, but the tension in her shoulders gives her away. The deputy—a weathered man with salt-and-pepper hair and a name tag reading “Simmons”—removes his hat and runs a hand through his hair.
“Actually,” Deputy Simmons begins, settling his hat back in place with a quiet sigh, “there wasn’t anyone home when it hit. The property belongs to Howard Mercer. He and his wife were moved to Shady Pines long-term care facility about three weeks ago.”
Relief rushes through me, my shoulders dropping. “So no casualties?”
“None,” the deputy confirms. “That’s the one bit of good news today.”
I glance down at Max, who edges closer, pressing against my leg like he’s looking for shelter. “What about him?”
Deputy Simmons follows my gaze, his expression softening. He shakes his head. “Looks like nobody thought to take him when they moved Howard to the facility.”
“So he was just left here?” I can’t keep the edge out of my tone.
“They have a son, but he lives on the other side of the state,” Simmons says with a shrug that suggests he's seen worse. “I can give Animal Control a call to come get him. Safer there than out here scavenging for food.”
“Animal Control?” I repeat, feeling Max press harder against my leg. “What about their son? Can you call him?”
“If he hasn’t come to get him by now, I doubt he’ll come now.”
Something tightens in my chest as I look down at Max. Those soulful eyes meet mine, filled with a confusion I recognize all too well. One minute your world makes sense, the next it’s gone.
“What exactly happens at Animal Control?” I ask, even though I already know.
Deputy Simmons shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “They’ll hold him for a while. Try to contact the family. But with his age and the circumstances…” He trails off.
Max presses against my leg, trembling. My hand drops to his head without thinking.
“I’ll take him,” I blurt, surprising myself as much as anyone.
Lila’s brows shoot up. “You’ll what?”
“Just temporarily,” I add quickly, trying to sound more thought-out than I feel. “I’ll foster him.”
Deputy Simmons studies me. “You sure? He’s been through a lot. Might have some issues.”
“I’m sure. I can take care of him for now.”
“Jonah,” Lila adds quietly, stepping closer. Her tone drops so only I can hear. “I get that you want to help, but storm chasing isn’t exactly dog-friendly.”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“I know,” I admit, meeting her gaze. “But I can’t just leave him here. Look at him.”
Max whines softly, as if understanding he's the subject of our conversation. His tail gives a tentative wag against my leg.
Lila's expression softens for a moment before she sighs. “One night. We find a pet-friendly motel, and tomorrow we figure something else out.”
“That works,” I say, relief flooding through me. I turn to Deputy Simmons. “Is there paperwork or something I need to sign?”
He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Normally there would be, but given the circumstances...” He pulls out a notepad, scribbles something down, and tears off the page. “My contact information. Let me know what happens with the dog.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking the paper and carefully folding it into my pocket.
As the deputy walks away, Lila crosses her arms, fixing me with an appraising look. “I want the record to state that this was your idea and he’s your responsibility. You do know how to take care of a dog, right?”
“Food. Water. Shelter. That’s the basics of animal husbandry I’ve been told,” I admit, looking down at Max, who's now sitting beside me, his body trembling . “Truthfully, I've never even had a pet.”
“And yet here you are, adopting a tornado survivor.”
“Temporary custody,” I correct her. “I know I should have discussed it with you first.”
Lila's eyes soften . “Well, it's done now. I’m not about to be the subject of a ‘Am I the Asshole? Reddit thread for dropping him off at Animal Control. I do not need Sarah McLachlan showing up and guilt tripping me.”
“Who is that?”
“Never mind,” Lila scoffs, surveying the darkening sky. “We should head out. There's nothing more we can do here, and I want to get to a motel before that next cell moves in.”
I nod, giving Max's head another awkward pat. “Come on, boy. Let's go.”
Max doesn't budge. He sits firmly in the mud, staring at the ruins of his home.
“Um...” I look helplessly at Lila. “He's not moving.”
She sighs, then crouches down to Max's level. “Hey, buddy. I know you want to stay. I know this is home. But it's not safe anymore, and we need to go.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small bag of jerky. “Look what I've got,” she says, tearing off a small piece and holding it out.
Max's nose twitches. His ears perk up . With obvious reluctance, he stands and takes a tentative step toward Lila's outstretched hand.
“There you go,” she encourages, letting him take the jerky from her fingers. “Good boy.”
I watch in amazement as she creates a trail of jerky pieces leading toward her truck. Max follows, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence, until he's standing beside the passenger door.
“How did you know that would work?” I ask.
Lila shrugs, a small smile playing at her lips. “Everybody responds to food. Dogs, people...meteorologists.”
“I don't—” I start to protest, then remember how quickly I'd accepted the bag of Funyuns she'd offered earlier. Did I like them? No. Did they leave an ungodly mess on my lap? Yes. But, my stomach stopped trying to eat itself. “Fair point.”
She opens the back door of her truck, shifting things around to make a space for him. “He can ride back here. I've got some old blankets he can sit on.”
I help Max climb into the backseat, wincing at the mud and debris he brings with him. Lila doesn't seem to mind, simply spreading an old flannel blanket across the seat. The dog turns in three tight circles before settling down with a heavy sigh.
“Thank you.” I gesture vaguely at the truck, at Max, at the whole unexpected situation.
“Don't thank me yet,” she warns, starting the engine. “We have to find a pet-friendly motel in the middle of nowhere, and a vet to take a look at that cut on him.”
As we pull away from the devastation, I watch in the side mirror as emergency vehicles continue their work around the ruined farmhouse. Max whimpers softly from the back seat, his eyes fixed on the shrinking remnants of his former home.
“It's okay,” I say, turning to look at him. “Sometimes starting over isn't so bad.”
Lila gives me a sidelong glance but says nothing as she navigates the muddy road back to the highway. The rain has picked up again, fat drops splattering against the windshield in an irregular rhythm.
“There's a town about thirty miles east,” she says, checking the GPS. “Oakridge. Small, but it should have what we need.”
Max lets out a soft whine from the backseat, then settles into a more comfortable position on the blanket. Within minutes, a gentle rumbling sound fills the truck—a surprisingly loud snore for a dog his size.
I glance back at him, fascinated by how quickly he's managed to fall asleep after everything he's been through.
“He's snoring,” I whisper, not wanting to wake him.
The snoring grows louder, punctuated by little whimpers that make my chest tighten.
I've never felt responsible for another living thing before.