11. Lila #2
Max woofs softly from the backseat, as if offering his approval of our storm-tracking strategy.
“See? Even Max agrees.”
“Hey, don't encourage him,” I say to Max, though I can't help smiling at the dog's apparent interest in meteorology. “Next thing you know, he'll want his own weather station.”
“I think he'd be quite good at it,” Jonah replies, reaching back to scratch behind Max's ears. “He's already got the sensory awareness part down. Dogs can detect pressure changes before most instruments.”
“Is that another fact from the Jonah Reed encyclopedia of random knowledge?” I tease, but I'm genuinely curious.
“Actually, yes. I did a literature review on biometric responses to barometric pressure changes during my post-doc.
There's fascinating research suggesting certain animals can detect shifts as subtle as half a millibar.” His face lights up with that particular enthusiasm he gets when sharing information, and I find it oddly endearing.
“So, Max here could be our early warning system?”
“In theory. Though I imagine his alerts might consist primarily of hiding under furniture.”
I laugh at that, picturing the golden retriever diving under a bed at the first sign of thunder. “At least he'd be consistent.”
The traffic finally thins out, and I press down on the accelerator, eager to make up for lost time. The storm system ahead is developing rapidly, dark clouds building on the horizon like a mountain range forming in fast-forward.
“We should reach our intercept point in about forty minutes,” I say, checking the latest radar update. “Assuming the system maintains its current trajectory.”
“You know what happens when you assume?”
I nearly pull over the truck to stare at him. “Was that a joke?”
“It was a joke attempt,” Jonah admits, a hint of color creeping into his cheeks. “I'm trying to lighten up. Be less stuffy.”
I can't help the laugh that bursts out of me. Mr. Algorithms and Atmospheric Pressure is making jokes in my truck. The apocalypse must be nigh.
“Well, consider me impressed. You’re evolving right in front of me,” I say, shooting him a sideways glance. “Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing jeans voluntarily.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” he replies, though there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Max picks that moment to drop his chin heavily onto Jonah’s shoulder. Instead of pulling away, Jonah lifts a hand and scratches under Max’s chin, earning a blissed-out stillness from the dog.
“I think he’s adopted you,” I note, keeping my attention on the road even as something warm unfurls in my chest at the sight. “Congratulations, it’s a dog.”
“Temporary custody,” Jonah corrects, but the way his hand lingers in Max's fur tells a different story.
“That’s what all fosters say before the foster fail.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is,” I assure him. “My sister is living proof. She started fostering for a local rescue, and now she’s a dog mom of six in a two-bedroom apartment.”
“That's very different,” Jonah protests, though his hand continues to stroke Max's golden fur. “She chose to foster. This was an emergency situation.”
“Uh-huh. We’ll see how you feel in a few days. I’m betting you’ll have an Amazon cart full of matching sweaters for him when you get back to campus.”
The dark clouds ahead have grown more defined, their undersides taking on that distinctive greenish tinge that makes my heart beat faster. I check the radar again—the hook echo is more pronounced now, rotation intensifying.
“We need to prepare for deployment,” I declare, automatically shifting into chase mode. “There's a county road about five miles ahead that should put us right next to the storm.”
Jonah straightens in his seat, transitioning seamlessly from dog-cuddler to meteorologist. “The vertical wind shear is impressive. Look at that anvil formation.”
“The question is what to do with Max while we're outside. He can't exactly help us set up equipment.”
“He stays in the truck,” Jonah says firmly. “With the windows cracked, of course.”
“And if he panics when the thunder starts booming?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“We'll see about that,” I mutter, checking the radar one more time. The storm system's movement has accelerated, the hook echo now fully formed. My skin tingles with that familiar electricity—the storm's calling card.
Before Jonah can respond, I spot it—a thin rope of condensation dropping from the cloud base about a mile ahead of us. “Funnel!” I shout, immediately slowing the truck and pulling onto the grassy shoulder.
It touches down in the field to our right, dirt and debris swirling into the rapidly thickening column. The funnel solidifies before us, transforming from wispy rope to solid column in seconds. Way too fast.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen yet,” Jonah mutters, tension tightening his words as he fumbles for his equipment.
“Tell that to the tornado,” I shoot back, already grabbing my camera from the backseat. Max whimpers, pressing himself against the floor of the truck. “Stay with Max,” I tell Jonah as I fling the door open. “I need footage of this formation.”
The wind slams into me as I step outside, nearly knocking me off balance. The air feels charged, electric against my skin. I brace against the truck door, lifting my camera to catch the rapidly intensifying tornado.
Through the viewfinder, I watch it swell to a quarter-mile wide, churning with debris. Its roar drowns out everything else.
I feel the shift before I see it—that sickening moment when the inflow jet changes direction. My camera catches the tornado twisting violently, its path turning erratic.
“Lila!” Jonah shouts, barely cutting through the noise. “It’s shifting track!”
I don't need the warning. I can see it happening through my viewfinder, the tornado suddenly lurching eastward—directly toward us. I lower the camera, calculating distances and wind speeds. We have a few minutes, at best.
A flash of movement catches my peripheral vision. I turn just as a large sheet of corrugated metal slices through the air. I try to duck, but I'm too slow.
The impact knocks me sideways against the truck, pain exploding across my shoulder and upper arm. My camera flies from my grasp as I crumple to one knee, the world tilting dangerously. Something warm trickles down my arm.
“Lila!”
Through the haze of pain, I see Jonah sprinting toward me, leaving the relative safety of the truck. His face is pale with terror, but his movements are surprisingly decisive. Max barks frantically from inside the cab, throwing himself against the window.
“I'm fine,” I try to say, but the words come out slurred as Jonah reaches me, dropping to his knees beside me. His hands are steady as they grip my shoulders.
“I'm okay,” I say more clearly, though the pain radiating from my shoulder suggests otherwise. His hands move from my shoulders to my upper arm, fingers probing gently where the metal struck.
“You’re bleeding,” he warns, tension sharp in his words. “We need to get you back in the truck.”
The roar of the tornado grows louder, vibrating through my bones. I glance over Jonah’s shoulder and see it’s shifted again, veering north of us. Still too close, but no longer on a direct path.
“Help me up,” I manage, trying to push myself to my feet. My right arm refuses to cooperate, sending jagged pain through my shoulder when I try to use it.
Jonah slides an arm around my waist, taking my weight as I stand. The world tilts hard for a second, and I grab his shirt with my good hand to steady myself.
“Camera,” I mumble, searching for where it fell.
“Forget the camera,” he insists, already steering me toward the passenger side. “We can come back for it.”
The urgency cuts through the haze. I let him help me into the truck, wincing as my shoulder hits the door frame. Max lunges forward right away, whining as he licks my face.
“I'm okay, buddy,” I tell the dog, trying to push him back with my good arm.
Jonah gently pushes Max back, his hands unexpectedly authoritative with the dog. “Give her space, Max.”
The pain is radiating in waves now, and I can feel something warm and sticky spreading across my shirt. When I glance down, I see a growing dark stain. More blood than I expected.
“That's a lot of...” I trail off, suddenly feeling lightheaded.
“Don’t look at it,” Jonah snaps, already sliding into the driver’s seat. His movements are quick and sure—nothing like the hesitation from yesterday. “Keep pressure on it. Use this.”
He hands me a bundled flannel from his bag, glancing between me and the tornado churning too close for comfort. I press the fabric against my shoulder, hissing as it makes contact.
“Keys,” I manage.
“Already got them.” He starts the truck, throws it into drive, and accelerates back onto the road, gravel spraying behind us. The tires spin for a second before catching.
Max whimpers from the backseat, shaken by the chaos and the scent of blood. I try to turn to reassure him, but the movement sends another sharp wave of pain through my shoulder.
“Don’t move,” Jonah tells me, attention locked on the road as he steers us away. “How bad is it?”
“Just a cut,” I lie, though the throbbing says otherwise. My head feels hazy, like my thoughts are wrapped in cotton. The pain pulses with each heartbeat, spreading from my shoulder down my arm.
Jonah glances at me, then back to the road. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I'm an excellent liar,” I protest weakly. “You just caught me on an off day.”
He accelerates, putting distance between us and the tornado with a confidence I wouldn't have expected from him two days ago. His hands are steady on the wheel. The professor is gone, replaced by someone who knows exactly what needs to be done.
“I need to get you to a hospital.”
“No hospital,” I manage, pressing the flannel harder against my wound. “Just need a first aid kit. I've patched worse.”
“That's not a decision you get to make right now.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “You're losing blood, possibly going into shock, and I'm not letting you DIY a serious injury in some motel bathroom.”
Max whines from the backseat, his nose nudging my elbow. The concern in those brown eyes nearly undoes me. How is it that after everything this dog has been through, he's worried about me?
“It's okay, buddy,” I murmur.
The world goes soft around the edges, like someone’s erasing the lines of reality. Jonah’s face blurs above me, his words muffled and distorted like they’re reaching me through water.
But even through the haze, I can see the fear in his eyes.
Jonah is never careless with emotion. He keeps himself controlled so tightly it sometimes feels like he’s holding his entire life together through sheer discipline alone. Even when he’s embarrassed or flustered, he tries to hide it behind composure and logic.
“Lila!” His voice cuts through the cottony fog in my brain. “Stay with me. Eyes open.”
I try to focus on his face, but it keeps doubling and blurring. The road stretches ahead of us, endless and wavering.
“Stop yelling,” I mumble. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Your lips are turning blue.”
“Impossible. I’m not a Smurf.” The joke falls flat even to my own ears. My words sound like they’re coming from someone else, someone far away.
Max whimpers again, his wet nose pressing against my cheek. The warmth of his breath grounds me for just a moment.
“Keep pressure on it,” Jonah instructs, his voice tight with strain. “I’m getting you to a hospital.”
I want to argue, tell him that hospitals mean paperwork and questions and being stuck in one place when there are storms to chase, but the energy for fighting drains out of me like the blood from my shoulder.
The truck hits a pothole, and pain lances through my entire body. I bite back a groan, not wanting to alarm him further, but he notices anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice breaking. “I’m trying to go faster, but the roads...”
“It’s okay,” I whisper. The world tilts sideways again. “I don’t feel anything anymore.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” He reaches over with one hand to press the makeshift bandage harder against my wound. I should be worried about this, I think distantly. The blood loss. The injury. But all I feel is a strange, floating detachment, like I'm hovering above myself.
“You should slow down,” I manage, though the words come out slurred. “If you crash...we’ll all...”
“I’m not losing you,” he says, the words clipped and fierce. “Not to this.”
The world tilts around me. I try to focus on his face, but it keeps swimming in and out of view.
“Hey. Hey. Hey. Don’t go to sleep. Make fun of me. Tell me I’m the most boring person you’ve ever met. Just keep talking.”
“You’re the most...” I struggle to form words. “The most uptight professor I’ve ever met.”
“Good. Keep going.” His voice cracks . “What else?”
“Your shoes were ridiculous.” I smile weakly.
He laughs, but it sounds forced. “I know. You already made me buy boots, remember?”
“You looked...good in boots.”
“You’re delirious.”
“No.” I try to shake my head but the motion makes the world spin violently. “I mean it. You looked hot.”
Max whines again, pushing his nose against my cheek, but the feeling fades so fast. Like a blink of an eye as the floor falls out from beneath my feet. The black edges fill in my vision, leaving only the tiniest pinprick of light left. Barely a speck in a sea of endless night.
“Lila. Please. Please, I need you to stay awake. I can see the hospital.”
I try. I really do. My lashes flutter, and for a second before the world blips from existence, I hear a voice. One I haven’t heard in thirteen years.
Hey, storm girl.
Dad?