The sun crept lower toward the tree line. Wind pulled and pushed at him. He staggered to the grass and lay the storm down on his overgrown lawn. She quivered as the wind raked over her cold skin.

“Bring my blade,” she said.

“I can’t. Not yet. I need you to tell me—”

“Bring my blade! Set me free. I’ll grant your knowledge.” Her voice gained strength already.

“First tell me where the storms are going.”

Her eyelids fluttered and peeled back from swirling charcoal irises. “They aren’t going. They’re coming.”

He stared at the sky. A dark line stretched across the horizon.

“Free me. Let me go and I will have the wind whisper secrets to you.”

He looked back. She’d pulled herself up into a crouch, her fingers twisting in the grass.

“You can do that?”

“If I want to.”

“Why would I need that if I have you?” A gust nearly swept him from his feet. He looked up again at the darkening sky. “The storm is coming here?”

She smiled weakly. “All of the storms are coming here.”

“You said you couldn’t tell them what to do!”

“I can’t. But they’re coming anyway. Storms are unpredictable.” Her legs trembled as she pushed herself to stand.

His face heated. The wind felt even colder.

“Are you the one? The storm that took Paula?” His nails cut into his palms.

Her smile grew. “I’ve had a thousand Paulas.”

“You’ll never get that blade back. You’ll never kill again. I’ll shake the knowledge out of you till you blow out, till you’re nothing but mist—a sneeze,” he shouted over the roaring wind.

She laughed, and her ropes of hair twisted in the sky. “It will be easy enough to pluck it from the rubble. I’ll have it either way.” She held out her open hand.

Lightning streaked across the sky in a jagged branch. It exploded against a tree on a nearby hillside. Thunder knocked him to his knees.

Jacob squinted at the silhouette of a funnel against the black sky.

“The time for choices is over . . . ”

He ran back into the house, grabbed the knife, and headed for the basement, sheltering in the ruin of Paula’s things.

Out of the roaring wind, he heard his phone, crowing like a gull—every notification pinging at once. He thumbed open an app and started a live feed.

“Get to shelter! A basement or interior room! A severe storm—multiple systems converging, tornadic—”

His electricity cut with a pop.

“Storm’s here—shelter now!”

They couldn’t see him, but they could hear him. He kept broadcasting, watching angry comments scroll against the dark rectangle where his face was hidden.

—you said west

—don’t have a basement . . .

—are we gonna die

—you were wrong

You were wrong you were wrong you were wrong . . .

His voice stuck behind the lump in his throat.