“We’re not going to be any help to them if we’re dead.”

The tires spin and grab, and then we’re barreling down the lane. Too fast. Tires scrambling for traction in loose gravel. The trees on either side of us undulate like underwater plants caught in a white-water rapid. I glance to the west. A swirling black wall cloud lowers from the sky like a giant anvil about to crush everything in its path.

By the time we reach the end of the lane, the first hailstones smack hard against the windshield and bounce off the hood. Tomasetti hauls the wheel left. The Tahoe fishtails when he hits the accelerator, and then we’re flying down the road at double the speed limit.

I see his phone lying in the console and snatch it up. The tiny screen blinks on. He’s pulled up the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration Web site with a live radar image of Painters Mill and vicinity. I see the flashing red of TORNADO WARNING at the bottom of the page and the magenta-colored mass of the storm moving across the map.

I set down the phone and look around. “It’s right on top of us.”

“Behind us. Close, though.”

I swivel, look through the back window, and I almost can’t believe my eyes. Rain slams down from a black sky, close but not yet upon us. It’s chasing us, I think. Beyond, I can just make out the outline of a darker cloud on the ground, impossibly wide, and a quiver of fear moves through me. I look at Tomasetti. “Our place okay?” I ask.

“I think so.”

“Tomasetti, this thing’s going to get that mobile home park.”

“Probably.” Looking tense, he frowns at me. “No time, Kate.”

I want to argue. Tell him that if we hurry, we can make it. I can use the bullhorn. It’ll only take a few minutes. But I know he’s right. We’re out of time.

Instead, I rap my fist against the dash. “Damn it!”

We enter the corporation limits of Painters Mill doing sixty. Outside the vehicle, the emergency sirens blare, a sound that invariably raises the hairs on the back of my neck. The town has a hushed feel, as if it’s holding its breath in anticipation of violence. Paper, trash, and leaves skitter along the sidewalk and street, like small animals running for cover. Some of the shopkeepers along Main Street took the time to close the awnings to protect their windows. Judging from the size of the wall cloud, I don’t think it will help.

The sky opens as we fly past the city building. Through the curtain of rain, I spot Councilman Stubblefield dashing up the steps two at a time, wrenching open the door. Then the deluge of rain blinds us. The wipers are already cranked on high, but they’re useless. It’s as if we’ve driven into a bottomless body of water and we’re on our way to the murky depths.

“There’s Lois’s Caddy.”