“Daaaad! The hurricane?” Sara pointed out the third-floor window where rain was already falling. “They let us out early so we could get home safely and help bat on the hatches.” She kicked her pink and yellow rain boots out and crossed them at the ankle.

“Batten down the hatches,” Noah corrected automatically, shuffling papers of town business that he could afford to set aside while dealing with what looked as though it would be a direct hit from a Category Two hurricane. And with the Connecticut River in their backyard, they were facing some serious flooding.

“Whatever. If you give me money, I’ll grab some stuff at the market.”

Noah rose, automatically reaching for his wallet. “Can you let me know what the bread and water aisles look like?” He’d already put out an informational sheet on provisions and emergency procedures to the town. But Merry, Connecticut, was traditionally overly optimistic when it came to nearly everything. Being city manager here was both a constant joy and battle trying to get residents to understand the less-than-positive consequences of their choices.

“I’ll text you,” Sara said, hopping to her feet and snatching the cash out of his hand.

“I have to finish up a few things here. Meet me at home in an hour?”

Sara was too busy texting to respond. Noah covered the phone screen with his palm. “Excuse me, daughter.”

With a dramatic sigh, she tucked her phone back into her backpack. “Bread and water aisle. Be home in an hour. I got it, Dad. You’re the one who’s always late.”

She spoke the truth. It seemed that his job was never done.

“Watch the bucket,” he warned, side-stepping a snowman tin one of the residents had donated to help catch the leaks that had begun plaguing the ceiling of his shabby office last spring. Town Hall was in dire need of a facelift.

“Is your mom ready for the storm?” he asked her as he walked her to the door, skimming a hand over her ponytail. “Is she okay with you staying with me?”

She swung the doeskin tail out of his grasp and shrugged. “I guess.”

He added it to the long list of rejections a father of a twelve-year-old suffered.

“Did she get my memo?”

Sara rolled her eyes. “Dad, why don’t you ask her? You have her number. I gotta go.”

“Be safe,” he called after her.

“I’m getting donuts,” she yelled from the stairs.