I was allowed to stay up past my bedtime. My father and Vietnam Tim were drinking beers on the porch, my mother was nearby editing images on her computer, and I was beside her doing another word search. “So you got a warm, humid, restless air mass,” Vietnam Tim explained, “and it meets an area of cold, and the atmosphere gets unstable. The cap of cold air eventually gives way, but by then, you got yourself a funnel cloud of storm winds. If that touches down, it becomes a tornado.”

“But enough about Hannah,” my father joked.

She flicked her gaze toward him. “Very funny.”

Vietnam Tim laughed. It sounded like the wheeze from a pool toy that was losing air. “Tornado Alley’s the red carpet for twisters. They cut a swath through Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, northern Texas. Here in Ochelata, the chance of a tornado coming is 145 percent greater than other places in the United States. There’ve been two category 4s here, matter of fact. One in 1974 that killed fourteen people and injured a hundred and fifty others, and one in 1991 that killed one person and injured twenty-four.”

“And you’re here because you figure Ochelata’s due for another?”

“It’s a matter of odds,” Vietnam Tim said. “If all the other storm chasers are heading for thunderclouds, I’ll pick the drought.”

My mother shook her head, smiling. “That’s not a plan, that’s a superstition.”

“You’ll see, when the tornado hits.”

“There isn’t going to be a tornado, Tim,” my mom replied. “There isn’t as much as a passing shower.” But as she said it, her eyes lit up, like she was energized by the challenge.

In my puzzle, I found letters spelling out BEAR, even though it wasn’t on the list of words to find. I circled it anyway.

“Well,” said Vietnam Tim. “I reckon one of us is gonna be right.”

•

The next morning Mrs. Evans showed me how to feed Nitpick. His loose lips rubbered against my palm when he took the grain from it. She taught me how to peel a slice of hay from a bale and toss it into his rack. “I wish I had a donkey.”

“There’s already plenty of asses in New York,” she said. “You wouldn’t want him, anyway. He’s fat and stupid and lazy.”

“Why don’t you get rid of him, then?”

“He reminds me of my late husband.” She patted between Nitpick’s ears. “Why don’t you get him an apple?”

While she mucked out the stall and refilled Nitpick’s water, I ran inside to get the treat. I hadn’t made it into the kitchen yet, though, when I heard the voices of my parents in the adjacent dining room, where Mrs. Evans had served pancakes and bacon for breakfast.

You can’t keep doing this, my father said. You need to come home.

You have no idea what I need.