Part 17 (2/2)

”It's a tornado warning,” I said. ”Get dressed and meet me in the bathroom. I've got to get Noah.”

”Is it serious?”

”A warning means a tornado has touched down. Yeah, I'd say that was serious.”

”s.h.i.+t!” he exclaimed.

”Meet us in the bathroom,” I repeated.

I unplugged the electric cord from the weather radio so that I could take it with me; it also operated on batteries. I grabbed my phone and hurried to Noah's room. I shook him awake, took him in my arms, and carried him down the hall to the bathroom. He wiped sleep from his eyes, didn't ask questions. He knew the drill.

I set him down in the tub, grabbed the blankets from the bathroom cupboard, and handed them to him, along with the s...o...b..x that contained our emergency kit. Inside were two flashlights, a roll of toilet paper, bottles of drinking water, bandages, matches, candles, and granola bars. He put it on the edge of the tub, his eyes wide with fright.

It's okay, I said. I said.

Jackson stumbled hurriedly into the bathroom wearing his cargo pants.

”Get in the tub with Noah,” I said.

”Why?”

”Just do it, please,” I said.

He got in the tub, holding Noah between his legs.

”You have to lay down and hold him. If the roof falls in, you don't want to be sitting up.”

”Is the roof going to fall in?”

”Just do it!” I snapped.

He arranged himself, and Noah lay down with him.

”It's the safest place,” I a.s.sured him.

Is there a tornado? Noah signed. Noah signed.

I shook my head. There was, of course, but I didn't want to scare him. I played with my phone, looking for text messages that were automatically sent when watches or warnings were issued, part of a free service that I had signed up for.

”Are we in any danger?” Jackson asked, a bit of hysteria in his voice.

”Probably not, but after the past few years, we're starting to think it's better to be safe than sorry. A warning means a tornado has been spotted somewhere nearby. I'm trying to find out where.”

”Jesus!” he exclaimed.

”Try to relax,” I said. ”Don't get the cheese-eater worked up.”

”He can't hear me,” he pointed out.

”But he can feel you,” I said.

”Aren't you going to get in too?” Jackson asked.

”If we hear something like a huge train coming, yeah,” I said.

”There's no room,” he pointed out.

”I'll just pile on.”

I got up and turned to the door.

”Where you going?”

”I need to get his pajamas,” I said.

”Who cares?”

”If we get blown away, I don't want my kid walking around in his underwear,” I said.

”Grab my s.h.i.+rt,” he called.

The apartment was quiet, which was either good or very, very bad. Tornadoes are usually accompanied by thunderstorms, hail, lightning, and all the rest of it. The absence of such activity means the tornado had pa.s.sed already, or was somewhere else-or that we were right in the eye of the storm and ready to get our b.u.t.ts kicked.

Thunder pealed, lightning flashed.

I checked to make sure the windows were closed. The one in my bedroom was open, and I slammed it down. I grabbed Jackson's s.h.i.+rt, a T-s.h.i.+rt for myself, then hurried to Noah's room, rummaging in his dresser for pajamas.

Back in the bathroom, we got dressed quickly. I made Jackson and Noah lay down with a blanket over them.

”Just in case,” I said.

”In case of what?” Jackson asked.

”Falling debris. Gla.s.s. Better safe than sorry.”

”Jesus!”

”Keep it light, lover boy,” I said. ”This is about the tenth warning we've had so far this year. We're still here. Don't get too excited.”

The power cut out suddenly.

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