The Incident

Josh sat at the dining room table and glared at the calculus problem on the worksheet. He ran his fingers through his hair. Why couldn’t he get it? He pushed away from the table, the chair squeaking over the wood floor, and moved to the dining room window. A sign swung on its post at the end of the driveway, 'Woolf Farm,' organic milk and vegetables, until Grandpa passed away. A For Sale sign hung beside it. How could his dad sell Grandpa’s farm? He stuffed his fists into his back pockets.

“Grandpa was the farmer, and with him gone, it doesn’t make sense to stay anymore,” Dad had said.

Why sell the farm, though? Where would they go? Grandpa had been married here, and so had great grandpa. Did Woolf Family est. 1908, as carved in the sidewalk, mean nothing? It meant something to Josh.

Sold. That meant—forever.

He plunked in the chair, laid his head on his arm, and hummed a bar from Pachelbel’s Canon in D. He shuffled through his precalculus papers scattered over the table, dropped his hands to his lap. What was the use? He couldn’t concentrate. He walked to the window and plopped on the window seat, glanced around the yard for Fergus. He put his hand to the glass.

Both Grandpa and Fergus gone in one week, and soon the farm?

A golden maple leaf floated by the window, one of the last on the tree. November winds would clear off the rest, nature’s scrub brush. He rubbed his fingers over the polished oak of the window seat, smooth as glass, perfect, made so by Grandpa’s hand. Couldn’t his dad see what he’d be selling? They would never find a house like this in town, not one where stories hid in every corner, on every step, behind every door.

Tears pricked his eyes. He wiped them on the back of his sleeve. Mom said, “grief takes time,” but how much time? Why couldn’t Fergus have hung around for another year at least? Fergus would have made it kind of bearable. Grandpa doted on his Irish wolfhound for twelve strong years, two years beyond the expected lifespan. It was a double whammy, for sure.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, he shook his head. It was time on his own that did this, gave him time to think of all he’d lost. If he could only get past the grief.

Dr. MacMurray said it was normal to be distracted and unable to focus, but that didn’t stop his grades from suffering, or his violin practice, or his soccer game. He wiped his nose and scanned the tabletop. Where’d he put the stress ball?

A package with his grandpa’s test strips sat on the buffet. Diabetes. That word ate at him. He had fussed and fumed at the hospital as Grandpa disappeared before his eyes. He’d been helpless to do anything.

“Diabetes runs in the family,” Grandpa had said. “Fine one day, in the hospital the next, just like my old man.”

Hospice. Josh winced. Why couldn’t he turn off this loop that wound through his brain over and over? He’d be a doctor one day, and then he’d find a cure. But who would do his homework in the meantime? He scooped up the precalculus papers and forced himself to pick up a pencil.

He stared at the problem on the sheet, but his mind wouldn’t focus. If they moved, where would Dad keep all his equipment? This farm was perfect. Everything had its place.

He crossed his arms, his thoughts drifting to summer evenings on the front porch, watching for bats flitting in the dusk. Grandpa would ask about soccer as the chickens clucked on their way to roost. Maybe that was why his dad wanted to sell. Grandpa was everywhere.

He set the pencil on the stack of precalculus homework and picked up his violin. He drew the bow over the strings. Somber notes drifted through the living room, like some fluent and soothing language, calming him. As he played, the birds would sing along, but where were the birds today? He drew the sheers back to reveal a row of steel gray clouds to the southwest. Was that why? The sky was still blue over the farm. Was that the storm Dad had predicted? It looked like a billowing black wall rushing toward them, and all the NOAA reports said it was supposed to be a big one.

Mom raced down the driveway, dust billowing behind her car. The branches on the giant maple by the barn swayed in the light breeze, and golden leaves floated to the ground. The fir trees swayed in the distance, and the dark clouds raced toward the farm across the November sky. The apple tree creaked in the wind. Another reason to stay, the applesauce.

Mom skidded to a stop and hopped out of her car, dragging her book bag with her. She clomped up the front steps and burst through the front door.

“Pretty spectacular, right?” She nodded toward the clouds, setting her bag on the dining room table.

“How’s Dad? Is he ready for his big speech?”

Dad loved a good storm. He studied irregular weather patterns, and monster storms were his specialty.

“Almost ready. He’s the keynote, first thing in the morning this time. I have to make a couple of quick revisions, and he’ll be all set.” She ran her fingers through her curls. “This storm couldn’t come at a better time. Maybe this will convince the doubters of changing weather patterns, right?” She gave him a shrug.

He nodded stuffing his hands in his pockets. Dad’s team at Vandby U had predicted a storm phenomenon originating in the Pacific Ocean. El Primo was all he talked about. “This storm pattern will come in a series of storms. They’ll hit the West Coast with such intensity they’ll wash out roads, topple trees, and destroy power grids and infrastructure.” He’d grinned. “You know, the usual monster storm stuff.”

“Good thing we’re solar powered.” Josh leaned against the table.

“Another thing to thank your grandpa for. He believed in his son, but he also believed in self-sufficiency and a well-stocked root cellar.” She shot him a quick glance.

Since the funeral, she’d avoided mentioning anything to do with Grandpa. Josh gave her a shrug.

“Did Dad say anything about this storm?”

“He agreed with the NOAA forecast. This one will be a whopper. A little help?” She jogged back to her car, and he followed. She must have broken every speed limit on her way home. Dad always did this to her, last minute changes, but mom let him do it. She’d work through the night if she had to.

His belly grumbled. He’d heat a can of soup for dinner. She stopped, and he bumped into her.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, staring at the sky.

Was she having trouble focusing too? “No. It was me.” He turned his attention to the clouds stacked into a thick mass that seemed to press down on the barn and house.

She sucked a whistle of air between her teeth. “This storm is moving fast.” She bent into the car and snatched her briefcase from the front seat.

He glanced at the skyline, and his neck tensed. The black mass seemed to boil as it moved across the sky. He lifted a box of books from the backseat and followed her to the house.

The sky started to rumble. He struggled against a sudden gust of wind, the heavy box making him top-heavy. The for-sale sign banged in a frenzied rhythm, and lightning flashed across the sky. Thunder boomed, vibrating the air.

“Less than a second.” He took the porch steps two at a time. “It’s right over us.”

A gust of wind pushed him through the front door, and his homework blew off the table. The scent of fir trees filled the air. He dropped the box on the dining table and grabbed at his homework as it flew in all directions. The last thing he needed was another zero in pre-calc.

Thumps on the roof startled him. Branches and pinecones hit the house as though blasted from a bazooka. This storm was moving fast.

Mom handed him a roll of tape. “Windows, quick.”

Her phone rang from inside her purse. “Ed? Ed?” She held her phone away from her ear. “Stupid phone.” She slipped it back into her purse, her brows furrowed. “He’ll call back, right?” She stared at the fireplace, her blank eyes sending a chill down his spine.

“Is this El Primo? Is that why he called?” He waited for her to answer, but she didn’t, and he couldn’t read her face.

Another gust hit the house, shaking the windows and doors. He lifted a curtain in the dining room. She rushed to his side, scanning the sky. He had the urge to put an arm around her bent shoulders but didn’t. A cold shiver tingled from the back of his head down his spine.

A typical Saturday at the Tate house, yelling optional, slamming doors required. Why did Mom have to freak out every time a storm rolled through Vandby?

Emma slid her bedroom window open. Her hands shook. With the steady movements she’d learned in gymnastics, she climbed onto the porch roof and sat on the edge, rolled onto her belly, and stretched her foot over the edge until it reached the trellis.

Hand over hand, she climbed down, jumping the final three feet. She jogged to the corner and glanced back at her house. She loped around the corner to the bus stop. She had to catch this bus. If she didn’t, she’d get caught, and mom would never trust her again, and she’d miss the march. She faltered a step, glanced one last time at the house, and drew her phone from her pocket.

No bars? “Hm.” She slid it into her back pocket. She could use Megan’s support right about now. Anything to drown out her mom’s voice in her head.

“What happens if you get stuck downtown, Emma? How will you survive? Who will you trust?” Mom was like a broken record.

No trust, that woman. What was the big deal? She was fighting for the planet, doing this for Dad. Stupid storms. Stupid car crashes.

She glanced down the street for the bus. It rounded the corner. The 102 to Vandby/Founders Square screeched to a stop in front of her. She covered her ears. Geez. Get a brake job, bud. The doors swished open, and she climbed aboard.

Four passengers? That was odd for a Saturday afternoon. She plopped in her usual seat. The bus radio sputtered unintelligible static. A guy with a leather satchel sat toward the front, his knee bouncing up and down. He must be running late.

The radio volume squawked louder, and she gritted her teeth. Was he deaf? The bus driver slowed the bus.

“High winds expected. All buses, finish routes and return to bus barn. Repeat. Finish routes—”

“10-4 dispatch. 102 out.”

“Wait. Does that mean I’ll have to walk home from downtown?” The guy clutched his bag, no longer tapping his feet. The driver pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded.

She’d have to walk home too. She glanced at the blue sky filling with dark clouds. This wouldn’t be a walk in the park.

The bus stopped at 10th and Main, and the doors whooshed open. She rose and followed a mom and her toddler son off the bus.

She stepped onto the curb and jogged across the street. The First Bank sign flashed:

Vandby, Washington 1:16 pm Saturday November 9

Storm Alert — High winds Clouds sailed overhead so low they seemed to brush the tops of buildings. That’s not right. This must be Mom’s storm. The angular lines of the bank building seemed so out of place next to the squat, old brick and stone buildings of Founders Square. Dad had been the lawyer who fought against building the high rises, yet there they stood. Emma clenched her fists. First the environment, then city hall.

Why couldn’t Mom understand? This was for Dad. The storm, the car crash, weren’t they reason enough to march? Someone had to save the environment, right? Then what was that throb at her temples? Guilt?

Note to self: No more lies—after today. She’d show Mom.

She held her phone. If she hurried, she might just make it on time. She glanced at the screen, no service. “Still?” She shoved it in her back pocket and sprinted down the street. The protest started at 1:30. Where was everyone?

Her phone vibrated. Megan, at last. She stopped and read the text.

- Protest canceled.

“What? No.” They couldn’t cancel the protest.

- but im here.

A gust of wind whipped her hair into her eyes. It stung, and her eyes watered.

- Idiot big storm coming.

Idiot? What the—

She tapped her response, hit send, and waited. She gripped her silent phone. No bars and a dead battery? Note to self: upgrade friend and phone.

She scrambled for balance as another gust hit her, pushing her against a building. She leaned into the wind and took several steps. Wow. These winds were intense.

Squaring her shoulders, she adjusted her backpack. She had to do something. She only had two blocks to go, and she’d be at Founders Square. Should she risk it?

Mom could not be right this time. There would be someone at the protest, and she’d be there to hand out flyers.

Gritting her teeth, she pressed on. There’d be another bus, and she’d be home before Mom even noticed she was gone. The wind picked up, and her knees buckled. It whistled over her, around her, through her thin hoodie. She glanced at the sky churning with dark clouds. When had they turned black?

Her phone vibrated, and she checked her phone. Bars. Finally.

get inside quick Ill catch next bus She hit send but her battery icon was red. Why did she always forget to charge her phone? Another gust of wind bumped her into a wall.

A woman struggled down the street wrestling with her umbrella. She didn’t even glance at Emma, and from her high heels and tight skirt, Emma knew she wasn’t headed to the protest.

Another blast of wind hit her, and she stumbled into the wall. Her hands flew out for balance, and her phone sailed from her fingers and across the sidewalk. It landed next to the curb in the street. Pushing against the gust, she fell to her knees and scrambled to grab it. A taxi screeched to the curb, right over her phone.

No.

The wind kicked up particles of dirt and grit, stinging her cheeks. The force of it took her breath away, whipping hair out of her ponytail. She clung to the edge of the curb and tried to stand against the wind, but it forced her to her knees.

She searched under the taxi where her phone should be. The driver leapt out, leaving his door open. Over the roar of the wind, his radio squawked: “All drivers, park immediately, seek shelter. This is not a drill.”

“Where’s your mom, kid?” The driver’s words hit her like a slap. He skirted around her and into a building. She sat stunned. Wasn’t he supposed to help her? She was just a kid.

The air was heavy and damp. She opened her mouth wide to pop her ears, pushed herself to a crouch. Megan was right. She needed to get inside. The taxi driver had disappeared through double glass doors, but what about her phone? A fat raindrop hit her forehead and rolled down her nose. Rain, really? She swiped at it.

A glint from something under the taxi made her reach under the cab. She wrapped her fingers around her dripping phone.

“Yes.” She held it to her face. “Oh no.” The screen was cracked in two. “No.” She slipped it into her pocket and struggled to her feet. The wind caught her and pushed her beyond the doors the taxi driver had disappeared through. It pushed her into Founders Square. Large raindrops pelted the top of her head, and she scanned the brick buildings for an alcove, some sort of shelter.

“Help!” The wind drowned out her voice and blew the rain sideways. The next gust swept her book bag off her shoulder. She clutched it to her chest, but the zipper had opened, and flyers scattered across the square.

She rushed toward a building and yanked on a door handle. Her wet hair slapped against her face. Locked? Was this a joke? She pounded on the glass. “Help, someone, anyone!”

The wind howled, and the rain pelted her like bee stings.

A sliver of light cut across a marble lobby floor. Emma pressed her nose against the gold lettering on the glass. A woman raced across the lobby. She unlocked the heavy wood door, and it flew open, hitting Emma’s shoulder. Emma flew back, and the woman’s mouth dropped open, her eyes round. Everything happened in slow motion. Another gust of wind knocked her against the front window, unbalanced her, and she rolled along the slick sidewalk like an empty paper cup.

“Oh my God.” The woman’s voice faded into the roar of the wind.

Emma grasped at the smooth granite foundation stones, the wind whistling down the city street. Her hip, elbow, wrist banged the sidewalk, the wall, the light pole. Her vision blurred. She reached an alley and grasped the corner of the building. A side wind caught her, and she tumbled on.

“Help!” she screamed, skidding out into the road.

Rain pelted her body, and her clothes and her hair clung to her. She dug in her heels, but nothing could stop her.

“No, no—no.” Emma tumbled down the sidewalk until down became up and a loud crack burst in her ears.