Chapter 141
Nora's POV
At ten-fifteen, we arrived at City Hall Plaza to find organized chaos. Three white cargo vans and a medium-sized passenger bus idled near the steps, their sides emblazoned with corporate logos. Officials clustered around clipboards, checking manifests. Camera crews from other outlets jockeyed for position.
I was scanning the crowd when I spotted him.
Henry stood near the lead vehicle, wearing a windbreaker and talking to a city administrator. His gaze found mine across the plaza.
We both froze for a heartbeat. Then he nodded politely. I returned the gesture with equal formality.
So that's how it's going to be.
The last time we'd spoken, he'd confessed feelings I couldn't return. Now here we were, thrown together by work, pretending everything was fine.
"Attention, everyone!" The city coordinator waved her clipboard. "We're loading up. Let's move!"
Vincent and I claimed seats near the back of the bus. The engine rumbled to life as volunteers finished loading supplies. Through the window, I watched Henry board the vehicle.
Ten minutes into the drive, footsteps approached down the narrow aisle between seats.
"Vincent." Henry's voice was carefully neutral. "Would you mind switching places? I need to discuss some coverage details with Nora."
Vincent glanced at me, eyebrows raised. I gave a tiny shrug. What could I say? Henry represented one of the sponsoring organizations.
"Sure, no problem." Vincent gathered his equipment and moved forward.
Henry slid into the vacated seat.
"There's nothing actually to discuss," he admitted after a moment. "I just... wanted to talk." He paused. "How have you been?"
"Busy." I looked ahead. "Work keeps me occupied."
"Right. Work." He was quiet for a beat. "Nora, you don't have to treat me like I'm some kind of threat. I know what happened between us. I know you turned me down. And Sterling already made his position extremely clear."
My head whipped toward him. "What?"
"You mentioned having someone you cared about. It's Sterling, isn't it?"
Had Julian told him about our relationship?
Henry exhaled slowly. "He warned me off. Very politely, very professionally, but the message was crystal clear." He smiled without humor. "When a federal inspector suggests you maintain appropriate boundaries, you listen."
"Henry, I—"
"I'm not angry." He held up a hand. "I'm just saying... I don't want this to be weird forever. After college, after you start really working, genuine friendships become rare. Everyone's networking, angling for something. I don't want to lose one of the few real connections I have because I couldn't handle rejection gracefully."
Guilt twisted in my chest. Henry had been there when Mom was hospitalized. He'd found the specialist, fronted the medical expenses without hesitation. When I was drowning, he'd extended his hand.
"We are still friends," I said quietly. "I never thought otherwise."
Relief softened his expression. "Good. I was worried I'd completely destroyed that."
"You didn't." I meant it. "What happened is in the past. We're okay."
He nodded, tension draining from his shoulders. Outside, the landscape blurred past under heavy gray clouds.
We rode in more comfortable silence after that.
---
The Rowan County Temporary Relief Center occupied an abandoned elementary school. Faded alphabet posters still decorated the walls. Converted classrooms served as distribution points.
The main hall was packed with displaced families—hollow-eyed, exhausted, wearing everything they owned. Children clung to parents' legs. Elderly residents sat on folding chairs, staring at nothing.
I raised my camera as the mayor launched into his speech. Standard political rhetoric about community resilience and corporate generosity. The words felt hollow against the backdrop of genuine suffering.
Henry and other volunteers began distributing supplies. I moved through the crowd with Vincent, capturing everything—the grandmother clutching a donated blanket, the father's shaking hands as he accepted baby formula, the blank stares of children.
My recorder captured their stories. Homes destroyed. Livelihoods gone. The terrifying uncertainty of starting over with nothing.
"This is good material," Vincent murmured, adjusting his lens. "Real human interest."
I nodded, already uploading raw footage to NPR's editing team while continuing to shoot.
The morning passed quickly, and just as we were preparing for lunch, the sky changed without warning.
Massive storm clouds rolled over the mountain ridge like a dark tsunami. Wind whipped up dust devils in the parking lot. The temperature plummeted.
"Look at that." Vincent squinted upward. "That's going to be bad."
"It already is bad." I secured my equipment with practiced efficiency. "I've handled too many emergency calls that started exactly like this. Flash floods, mudslides—this area's geological structure is already compromised."
"Last time I got caught in mountain weather, I was documenting that infrastructure piece. Spent three hours in a shed that reeked of dead animals."
The first raindrops hit like bullets.
Within seconds, the sky opened up.
"Everyone to the vehicles!" someone shouted. "Move!"
Henry appeared beside me through the deluge. "Nora, come on!"
We ran. I clutched my equipment bag, rain hammering my shoulders.
We'd almost reached the media vehicle when the ground shuddered.
A deep, rolling boom echoed from somewhere up the mountain.
"Mudslide!" A volunteer pointed wildly. "The north road collapsed!"
Vincent and I looked at each other for one second.
Then we both turned and sprinted toward the disaster site.
This was the story.
I'd barely taken three steps when a hand locked around my wrist.
"Nora! Don't!"
Henry's grip was iron. I tried to twist free but he held on.
"Let go. I need to—"
"It's a mudslide!" His voice cracked. "You can't just run toward it!"
"I have to go there." I yanked my arm. "This is my job."
"There are other reporters! Let them cover it!" He blocked my path. "You shouldn't—"
"Henry." I stared at him. "They're them. I'm me. Their footage won't have my name on it."
"You already have enough material! Is one story worth risking your life?"
Something hot flashed through me. "I chose this career. I accept these risks."
"But you don't need to—"
"I'm a reporter." My voice stayed level. "If I don't go to the front lines, how can I capture truth? How can I write anything real from a parking lot?"
He stared at me, and under my determined gaze, he released his grip.
"Be careful."
I nodded.
Vincent was already twenty yards ahead, camera on shoulder. We ran toward a pickup truck.
---
The pickup jolted violently over the makeshift road. Vincent and I huddled in the truck bed, rain slickers doing little against the downpour. Water pooled around our boots.
Through the rain, I could see where entire sections of hillside had vanished, leaving raw wounds of earth and splintered trees.
I gripped the rail with both hands, keeping my recorder protected inside my jacket. My mind was already working—survivor interviews, damage assessment, emergency response protocols.
The pickup slowed.
Then stopped.
The driver leaned out his window. "Can't go further! Road's completely washed out!"
Vincent swore. I peered ahead through the sheets of rain.
The road simply ended. Where asphalt should have continued, there was nothing—just a gaping chasm.