Chapter 37 Rowe
Rowe
The cell phone lines are down. I’ve tried calling Pane several times, but the call won’t go through.
I only pray that he’s safe.
“Come on, let’s go,” I say to the piggycorns. “Outside, to the shelter. Now!”
The drove races toward the back of the house, skidding across the wooden floorboards. Outside, the wind sweeps fiercely across the house. Branches bang on the roof. The glass in the windows contracts and shudders, flirting with breaking.
The piggycorns scrabble over the kitchen floor, their hooves trying to gain purchase as they slide into one another, bunching up in a group in front of the back door.
I count. “Where’s Tallulah?”
They look up at me in question, worry blazing in their dark eyes. I rush back to the foyer. “Tallulah!”
She’s not in the living room, which is the new reception area, or Mom’s office, where she loves to curl up under the desk.
I take the stairs two at a time. “Tallulah!”
I toss open bedroom doors, frantically searching. She’s not in my room or the bathroom. She’s not here.
Where is she?
I rush back downstairs to where the rest of the drove sits by the door. There’s not the usual ear-pulling or hoof-nipping. They’re on edge. Worried.
“Come on. We’ll find her.”
I grab Buster the Cat from the counter and rush the piggycorns outside and down the porch steps. The sun has set, and I can barely see the horizon as debris flies through the air. Leaves slap against my face. Grit fills my eyes.
The worst storms always occur at night. Always. When you can’t see is when the worst things happen.
My hair blows in my eyes. I shove it away from my face. “Tallulah!”
There’s no reply. No little piggy grunting in a bush, hiding from me. Nothing.
And where is Pane? The bar isn’t safe if a tornado hits. The place will be ripped up from the ground, tossed into the air, and flipped upside down.
I can’t focus on that. I can’t think the worst. He’s safe. Pane is safe. He’s all right.
“Tallulah!” I call into the night that’s quickly coming.
Branches slash at my arms as I push the piggies around to the side of the house and tug on the storm-shelter door. It doesn’t give at first, but after I put my back into it, the heavy steel begins to move, its hinges groaning in protest.
The smell of warm earth and moisture hits me in the face, for the shelter is nothing more than a hole dug out of a hill. But it has a light and it’ll keep us safe.
I try to usher the pigs in, but they hesitate. So I place Buster the Cat on the floor and pull the string that’s attached to the single light bulb in the center of the room. When the piggies can see the interior, they slowly amble inside, sniffing and snorting as they go.
I slam the door shut and take a moment to study my cramped surroundings.
There’s little in the room except for brittle shelves that have been here since Jesus walked the earth, and some wooden boxes of starfizz berries that are slowly drying out.
Pane and I saved what we could from the hedges that the unicorns destroyed, and we stored them in here. The piggies immediately smell the berries and move for them.
When facing the choice of grumpy pigs or pigs with full bellies, I’ll take pigs with full bellies anytime of the day.
I push the crates toward them and let them feed. Which reminds me—maybe Tallulah’s nearby.
I press my shoulder against the heavy steel door, grunting in frustration as it slowly gives, inch by inch.
When it’s open a couple of feet, the wind catches it and yanks the door from my hands, throwing it open.
When I step out to grab it, the wind grabs hold of me, too, almost throwing me from the shelter.
“Tallulah! Pane!”
The sky’s become a steely gray. I can still see some, but soon I won’t be able to see at all. It’ll be me alone with pigs until the storm blows over.
Fighting the screaming wind, I step back into the shelter, my heart thundering against my ribs. I’m alone. Truly alone. It’s the one thing in life that I thought that I wanted—to be alone so that I could take care of myself. Now I realize how foolish that was.
I hate it. I can’t stand it. Here I am, facing down a line of tornadoes heading straight for us, and I don’t want any of it. I don’t want one piece of this. All I want is to be wrapped up safely in Pane’s arms, surrounded by my piggies.
If this is what it means to prove I can take care of myself—facing unimaginable destruction all alone—then I don’t want it.
I need someone, and it’s okay to admit that.
From my jeans pocket, I pull out my phone. There’s no service, no way to contact Pane and make sure that he’s okay. God, please let him be okay. I don’t ask for much, so please give me this.
No idea if he heard my request, but as I shut the shelter door behind me and slide down to the floor, my heart tightens.
Never in my life did I think it was possible to care about someone so much, to love them as much as I do Pane.
The piggycorns surround me, sensing my sadness.
I lower my head as they blot their wet snouts to my face. We’ve lost Tallulah, and I pray that Pane is safe. The only thing that could save my favorite little girl is a miracle.
I pull my knees up to my chin and exhale. Please, please let them be safe.
We sit in silence for a few moments, the only sounds being the crunch of dried starfizz berries, the soft grunts of piggycorns eating, and the muffled whir of the screaming wind beyond the door.
Then a noise outside grabs my attention. It sounds like yelling. Then something snaps. Then more yelling. I glance up as the heavy metal door scrapes open.
The wind howls. Trees thrash violently. And in from the shadows steps Pane. He’s windblown; his hair sticks up in all directions, and his shirt is smudged with dirt and ripped in several places. But under one arm, he carries Tallulah, and behind him, he’s leading in Stella.