“He can’t be outside in this. When did he leave the house?”

Pat shrugged and pretended to look for batteries for the radio and the flashlight. “He’s fine.”

Just then the roof was drummed with another barrage of hail. The wind keened. “He’s not fine. He’s out there. And you’re just sitting around doing fuck-all.”

“Don’t start with me.”

“Did you ask him where he was going? Jesus, Pat, you’re completely fucking useless sometimes.”

“Now you’re blaming me for the goddamn weather.”

The lights went out in the house, and it was very dark inside and out. The air-raid siren screamed in the distance.

“Shit. Did he take his bike?” Anne grabbed the car keys back out of her purse. She was shaking with anger. “I’m going to look for him.”

“Wait. I’ll go. Give me the keys.” Pat stumbled in his first step, his leg half-asleep and tingling.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Stop arguing with me.”

“You can’t even walk straight. Christ, Pat. I can smell it on you.”

“Stop with all the drama.”

“I can’t fucking believe you!”

An unnerving gale shook the house. Through the patio screen door Anne could see the trees in the yard, battered sideways. Pat’s chin sank into his chest. He had been caught. He put out his hand. “Just give me the keys.”

The lights flickered back on for a moment, then went out again.

“You useless piece of shit.” Anne turned to go. “You’re drunk before noon.”

“I’m not fucking drunk! I’m just sick of all your bullshit.”

And with that Pat lunged at his wife and ripped the keys to the Zephyr out of her hand.

“Pat, stop . . . please. You can’t . . . Listen, we’ll both go—”

“I’ll find him!”

Pat glared at her with bloodshot eyes, then limped away quickly. Anne threw her head into her hands and started to cry. A blast of hot air rushed into the house as Pat left, slamming the front door behind him. He’s going to kill himself, Anne thought. But she didn’t stop him. She went to the front window as Pat skidded down the driveway and tore off in her car.

Anne didn’t know what to do, so she checked that all the windows in the house were shut tight. Five torturously long minutes passed. Anne closed her eyes and prayed. Lord, I never ask for anything. But this is my hour of need. Please, Lord, deliver my child to safety. Let this storm pass. Please, I never ask—

The front door swung open, and Dan, his hair tangled with chips of hail, staggered in. Emma Wesselman was right behind him, the wind blasting the drapes off their rods and tossing an oil painting of Manhattan off its nail in the living room.

Dan, his face flushed with fear, shouted at his mother, “This is bad!”