Slowly, with some difficulty, Stretch peers down between his two front legs. His body partially shelters me from the rain. A piece of canvas has draped itself around his neck like an ugly scarf.

I swallow my howls. We look at each other, too stunned to form actual words.

Finally Stretch clears his throat. “Hello,” he says in a strangely calm voice. “What kind of animal might you be, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Dog.”

“Didn’t think you guys flew.”

“We don’t. As a rule.”

I pick myself up, move out from under Stretch, and take in my surroundings. The pelting rain has slowed some, and the wind has dulled.

“What was that?” Stretch asks, trying and failing to yank the canvas off his impressive neck.

“Tornado, I think.”

I’ve seen tornadoes on the Weather Channel. They looked like water swirling down a drain. If the water were black and full of trucks and trees.

They looked like death.

I gaze up at him. I have to crane my neck. “You okay?”

“Yep,” says Stretch. “But from what I can see, a lot of other folks aren’t.”

aardvarks

Across the way, I hear something.

A small squeak.

“Who lives over there?” I ask Stretch.

“The aardvark family,” he replies. “Lovely neighbors.”

Carefully, I venture across Stretch’s domain. The sky is dark as dusk.

I hear a flutter of wings overhead. It’s Mitch, the mockingbird. He’s missing some feathers.

“Bob,” he calls, settling on a fence post. “Was that you I saw up there?”

“Yep. How are things looking?”

“Not good. Lotta damage.”

“Well, take care of yourself,” I say.

“Likewise.” He pauses to straighten a wayward feather. “Little hint, by the way. Next time you fly, try flapping your paws.”

I make my way over a broken wooden barrier, tiptoe over some scattered glass and twisted metal, cross the paved path, and arrive at the aardvarks.

More sounds. They’re coming from what looks like a demolished keepers’ shed. I hesitate, not sure what to do. It’s a big mess, and I’m a small guy.

Also, my head hurts. I feel dazed. Fuzzy. My ears are ringing.

I yank off some small stray boards with my mouth.

For the record, small stray boards have small stray nails in them.

Underneath the boards are three shivering aardvarks, two babies and a mom. They’re strange looking, I gotta say, with their long piggy snouts and bunny ears.

“You good?” I ask.

“W-w-w-what was that?” the mother manages to ask.

“Some seriously bad weather.”

“Is it over?”

I consult the wind. “Doubt it.”

“You think everybody’s okay?” she asks.

“Dunno. Sure hope so.”

And then it hits me.

Ivan. Ruby. Julia. George.

“Look, I gotta go,” I say in a strangled voice. “Any part of your indoor den survive?”

She nods. “Think so.”

“Go there. Lie low.”

“Where’s Pedro?” the littlest aardvark asks.