5. Lila
LILA
I check my radar again, squinting at the screen as the supercell's hook echo takes shape. The system is developing exactly as predicted. Right on schedule according to the models I've been tracking since dawn. Classic plains supercell with rotation already visible in the southwestern quadrant.
My equipment is arranged in a semicircle around my truck—three cameras on tripods positioned to capture different angles, custom instruments mounted above the cab transmitting live wind speed, direction, pressure, and temperature data back to my laptop.
Some of the equipment was modified years ago by Dad himself, patched together with the kind of ingenuity that made actual meteorologists either impressed or deeply nervous.
The portable generator hums steadily beside the tailgate while radar loops flicker across one of my monitors.
Everything in its place. Everything ready.
I’ve done this dance a hundred times before. Long highways. Heavy skies. The electric tension that settles into the air before the atmosphere decides whether it’s going to behave or start tearing itself apart.
So why does it feel different today?
I glance at my phone again, the email still open on the screen.
Dr. Reed’s words sit there, balanced carefully between professional and something else I can’t quite define. Formal enough to maintain distance. Personal enough that I’ve reread certain sentences more times than I’d ever admit out loud.
I’ve read the email seventeen times since it arrived three days ago.
Seventeen. Which is embarrassing.
Every time, I tell myself I’ll delete it without replying. That collaborating with an academic who looks at me like I’m both a scientific anomaly and a problem he wants to solve is a terrible idea. And every time, I don’t.
Because the truth is, Jonah got under my skin in a way I don’t entirely understand, and it’s really starting to annoy me.
Most researchers hear “storm chaser” and immediately start looking for the reckless adrenaline junkie stereotype. Jonah looked at me like my instincts had value. Like experience mattered and maybe I belonged in conversations I’ve spent years fighting to be taken seriously in.
The sky overhead rumbles faintly in the distance, low and familiar.
I should delete the email. I should put him and his research into the trash can and never think about it again.
Instead, my thumb hovers over the reply button while warm spring wind whips loose strands of hair across my face.
And somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I already know I’m going to answer him.
“Carrier pigeon,” I mutter, shaking my head as I adjust one of the camera tripods. Who puts jokes in an apology e-mail? The same kind of academic who apparently thinks it's appropriate to chase me down after I made it clear I wasn't interested in his offer.
Except I am interested. That's the problem.
The wind picks up, carrying the scent of rain and ozone.
I check my watch—T-minus forty minutes until the main system arrives.
Big thunderclouds were already piling up incredibly high in the sky.
The top of the storm spread outward in a flat, dark shape, stretching across the prairie like a giant hand reaching east.
I glance at my phone again, cursing myself for the indecision. Why am I even considering this? I don't need validation. I don't need university funding. I certainly don't need some lab rat tagging along, asking questions while I'm trying to work.
But those algorithms he described could change everything. It would give people precious extra minutes to seek shelter. It could save lives.
Maybe I should do it. The grant money would definitely make things easier. But would that mean I am selling out to the educational overloads that treat chasers like me shit? Yes. Why am I overthinking this? It's a simple calculation, what do I gain versus what do I lose?
I would gain funding, institutional backing, and potentially groundbreaking predictive algorithms. I would lose my independence, my control, and my solitude.
The last one shouldn't matter, but it does. I've worked alone since Dad died. No partners, no team, just me and the storms. There's a purity to it that I've come to rely on. No one to answer to, no one to slow me down, no one to question my instincts when they contradict the data.
But those algorithms...
A gust of wind nearly knocks over one of my tripods. I lunge to catch it, almost dropping my phone in the process.
“Get it together, Lila,” I mutter to myself. “Focus on what's in front of you.”
I tuck my phone away and focus on the developing storm.
The southwestern edge is already showing rotation on radar.
The first raindrops hit my windshield, fat and sporadic.
I pull my rain jacket tighter around me and check the anchor on my primary camera.
The wind is gusting now, strong enough to make the prairie grass ripple like water. Beautiful and ominous.
An alert buzzes on my phone.
The National Weather Service in Norman Oklahoma has issued a severe thunderstorm warning for the following counties...
I tune it out. I'm already ahead of their warning by twenty minutes. In the distance, a flash of lightning illuminates the underbelly of the storm. I count automatically—one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand—reaching eight before the thunder rolls across the prairie about a mile and a half out.
Rain wraps around the horizon in shifting gray curtains while the wall cloud lowers another few hundred feet, slow rotation tightening beneath the mesocyclone.
Wind tears across the field hard enough to rock the truck.
Above the cab, Dad’s modified instruments chatter softly as pressure readings continue to fall.
This should have my full attention. Usually, it would.
I stand beside the truck with my phone in hand, radar app open as velocity signatures pulse red and green across the screen. The storm is cycling hard. The rotation is becoming more defined by the second.
And somehow, despite all of that, my stupid brain keeps drifting back to Jonah’s email. It’s infuriating.
I swipe back to radar again, trying to force myself into focus mode. Storm first. Everything else later. That’s always been the rule. But the email sits there in the back of my mind anyway.
I should reply. I will replay. After.
Because I am not the kind of person who stands in an open field under a rotating supercell composing emails to someone who has, apparently, managed to lodge himself somewhere between my prefrontal cortex and my better judgment after a single conversation. That is not who I am.
I've tracked debris signatures while changing a tire in quarter-sized hail. I've run on two hours of sleep through three states without blinking. The fact that he’s occupying this much space in my head is genuinely starting to piss me off.
Another gust drags my hair across my face. I look back down at the radar.
The velocity couplet snaps tight.
There it is. Rotation. Real rotation. I exhale slowly and let everything else go quiet.
My phone buzzes in my hand with an urgent alert—not the typical weather service warning, but my custom storm tracker app. My heart rate spikes as I read the notification.
CONFIRMED TORNADO ON GROUND. 8 MILES NE OF ENID. MOVING ESE AT 25MPH.
I shove the phone into my jacket pocket and reach for the camera mounted nearest the truck.
Focus, Brooks. Storm first. Professor later.
I grab my binoculars and scan the northeastern horizon. There—a dark vertical shadow against the charcoal sky. It's already a well-formed funnel, probably an EF-2 at least from the size, though it's hard to tell at this distance.
Decision time. I have maybe ten minutes before I need to commit. Stay put and let the system come to me, or relocate to intercept the tornado directly?
My current position is elevated with clear sightlines. The tornado's projected path will bring it within range in about fifteen minutes. But if I move now, I could get closer, and get better data.
The wind whips my hair across my face as I calculate rapidly. Moving means packing up equipment and losing continuous data collection. Staying means potentially missing the best documentation opportunity.
“What would you do, Dad?” I mutter, eyes fixed on that distant funnel.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the massive supercell structure. I make my decision. Snatching my phone, I hit the voice recording function.
“A tornado has already formed northeast of my position, moving east-southeast. Decision to relocate for better documentation.” I pause, watching another flash illuminate the funnel. “Rotation appears to be intensifying.”
I work quickly, collapsing tripods and securing equipment. My hands move almost independently of my thoughts, muscle memory taking over while my mind races through variables.
The first heavy raindrops become a steady downpour as I load the last camera into my truck. I'm soaked through in seconds, but I barely notice. The storm's roar grows louder, a deep rumbling punctuated by sharper cracks of thunder.
I slide behind the wheel, firing up the engine and checking the radar one more time. The tornado's path is steady. If I take County Road 18 north and then cut east, I should be able to pull up right alongside her.
I punch the coordinates into my GPS, though I don’t really need them. After years of chasing in these counties, the web of rural roads is mapped in my mind as clearly as the storm patterns themselves.
The wipers struggle against the intensifying rain as I pull onto the road.
My truck's tires spray muddy water as I accelerate, eyes constantly shifting between the road ahead and the tornado visible through my passenger window.
It's growing, feeding on the energy of the massive storm system that spawned it.