He dropped her on the floor, his phone already to his ear as he locked the door and raced up the stairs, kicking aside chunks of melting ice.

***

He burst into the newsroom they’d prepped for him. The cloud map imposed across the wall screen, circulating in digital blips over the world map. He jumped in front of it.

“The system will continue to head southwest across southern California, moving out to sea. Expect continued rainfall as it progresses—there could be some flash flooding in the hills and burn scars. Don’t try to drive through deep or moving water, plan an evacuation route to high ground—”

As he spoke, the swinging arm of the stormfront moved eastward, churning north—directly away from where he had just indicated.

The anchors in his peripheral vision exchanged confused looks.

He froze, watching the system as it pulsed closer.

“We’ll be right back,” he said, nodding to Dan. Dan cut the feed.

“Can I get a computer?” he shouted into the shadows offstage. Phil came running with a laptop.

Jacob called up all the satellites and radars, the wind maps and thermals. The storm was moving east. Quickly. Not to sea, but straight back into the Midwest.

“That’s not where it was going . . . ” he said. Susan and Dan looked at him, shook their heads. Not even Cathy’s makeup magic could hide the circles under their eyes or the way their furrowed brows cracked the flesh-toned paste.

He opened his storage drive and grabbed the video clip from the previous morning.

“Show them that. Distract them. Stall. I need to . . . I need to go talk to the storm.” He left before their incredulous faces could fully form.

***

The ice in the house had all melted. He splashed down the basement steps and unlocked the door. The storm was crumpled on the floor where he’d left her, her wild hair strung in clumps through the broken glass. She wasn’t moving.

Jacob knelt next to her, his pants soaking up the icy water.

The thunder in her chest sounded far away. A storm receding.

He pulled her hair off her face and gripped her shoulders. He squeezed and her scaly eyelids fluttered.

“You were wrong about the storm,” he said, unsure she could even hear him.

She struggled against his grip and tried to sit. “I can’t see . . . ”

“Your eyes are closed.”

“I can’t see the sky.”

“You need to see the sky? You need to go outside to predict the storm?”

“I need the wind.”

She was too weak to fight or run or stop his heart with thunder bursts. Her eyes were as milky as cataracts—not a trace of lightning yellow.

“I’ll take you outside, just tell me what’s happening.”

She was easy to lift. She hung in his arms like seaweed.