The turnpike led to an overpass over Highway 170. The RV park was below on one side, and a gas station was on the other side, just a quarter of a mile away.

Shepley held out his hand. “We should go.”

“Where?”

“The overpass.”

“If it goes over the bridge, we’ll be sucked out,” I said, my teeth beginning to chatter. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was cold or terrified. “The gas station is the safest place!”

“It’s closer than Emporia. Hopefully, it will miss us.”

More people ran past us toward the junction, disappearing as they descended down the hill to hide under the bridge. A truck slammed on its brakes in the middle of the turnpike, and seconds later, an SUV rammed the truck. A loud crunching of metal and glass was muted from the growing wind created by the tornado. It had grown larger in just the few seconds when I turned away.

Shepley signaled for me to wait while he jogged to the wreckage. He peeked in, took a few steps back, and then rushed to check on the driver of the truck. His shoulders slumped. They were all gone.

“You can’t stay here!” a woman said, tugging on my arm.

She held hands with a young boy, about ten years old. The whites of his eyes stood out against his dark bronze skin.

“Mom!” he said, pulling her away.

“It’s going to plow straight through here! You have to find shelter!” the mother said again, taking off toward the gas station with her son.

Shepley returned to me, taking my hand. “We have to go,” he said, turning to see dozens of people running toward us from their parked vehicles.

I nodded, and we began to run. The rain stung my face, blowing horizontally instead of toward the ground, making it hard to see.

Shepley looked back. “Go!” he said.

We ran across two lanes and then paused on the far side of the grass median. Traffic was light but still moving in both directions. We stopped for a moment, and then Shepley pulled me forward again, across both lanes of oncoming traffic and then down the on ramp toward the gas station. A tall sign overhead read Flying J. People were running from the parking lot toward the overpass.

Shepley stopped, and my chest was heaving.

“Where are you going?” Shepley asked no one in particular.

A man holding the hand of a grade school–aged girl ran past us, pointing ahead. “It’s full! They can’t fit any more!”

“Shit!” I cried. “Shit! What do we do?”

Shepley touched my cheek, worry tightening the skin around his eyes. “Pray it doesn’t hit us.”

We ran together to two bridges that allowed the turnpike passage over the top of Highway 170. Large concrete pillars loomed over us, creating the underbelly where the metal met the hillside. The crevices of both bridges were already pregnant with frightened people.

“There’s no room,” I said, feeling hopeless.