“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those…”

The girl turns to the swaying lace curtains and catches a blur of movement in the deluge outside. Slowly, the figure takes the shape of a man. A man in a hat.

His evergreen poncho flaps like the frantic wings of a bird under attack, while his matching wide-brim fisherman’s hat forms a bloated gutter above his gray beard. The aluminum awning above him offers no protection as the rain gusts horizontally, vertically, and circularly, mixed with bits of earth. A white puff of a dog is clutched beneath his armpit. He places it down, the puny animal determined to answer nature’s call.

“Oh my God. Mr. Zanger is outside,” the ten-year-old says, pointing toward the yard.

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” her aunt scolds, then she follows her gaze. “What is he thinking?”

The man clutches a pole, struggling to stay upright as sheets of water crash on his face. The dog is barely visible through the murky haze, his yaps inaudible over the freight train rumbling across their ceiling. The old man releases the pole, stretching for the animal, as the posts of his awning suddenly lift from the ground like pegs from their slots, and the green-and-white metal sheet soars with the wind. The man crashes to the mud back-first. His head hits.

“Oh my God!” The girl leaps to her feet.

The wind shoves the small canine against the siding of the colonial, and the man lies motionless, faceup in the downpour.

The girl runs through the house, her eyes on the shuddering back door. She’s aware of the danger, but she doesn’t stop. She and fear are old friends. Best friends. The storm is no match for what’s inside her house.

“Vera! No! Get back!” her aunt yells.

The girl reaches the door, Category Two gales fighting her push, thrusting her inside like even the storm doesn’t want her stepping into its wrath. She barrels through.

There are no shoes on her feet as she stumbles blindly, toes squelching on the sodden earth and a skinny elbow bent in front of her face for protection. Three steps forward, she slides back one, three steps forward, she wobbles back again. The dog yelps, guiding her way.

She trips over the man before she sees him, dropping to her knees into clumps of clotted leaves.

“Mr. Zanger! Are you okay? Can you get up?” She shakes his shoulders, and his head lifts briefly.

“Vera! Vera! Come back!” her aunt cries in the distance.

The girl tugs at the heavy body, his consciousness slowly returning.

“Mr. Zanger, can you hear me?” She wipes the rain from his eyes, using her back as an umbrella to shield his face. He attempts to roll onto an elbow, but the hurricane throws him back like a wrestler who’s won his match: stay down! “Mr. Zanger!”

“You? You!” He groans, squinting.

Then his dark pupils swell, fear taking hold.

Only, he isn’t afraid of the storm.