The third storm hit with the same gale force winds of the first one. More trees toppled, more debris struck the house in clunks and whacks. How long would this one last? Uncle Carl had left with Mom over two days ago. It seemed like weeks. He rubbed his temples and yawned. At least his hair was clean. The shower refreshed him, but still he yawned. How could doing nothing be so exhausting?
He rummaged through a drawer in the kitchen and found a container of green play-putty. He pressed it through his fingers and pulled it until it snapped, pacing the floor, and keeping watch over Emma. She lay on her side, deep regular snores filling the air. She must still have some congestion. He sat at the kitchen table, rolling the putty under his palm.
Emma. He knew her name, but that was it. She could be related to Bill, for all he knew. No. She couldn’t be. He pulled the putty and wadded it into a ball. Would he treat her any different if she was?
He pressed the putty against the table. She came from Vandby, and so did Bill. What was taking Dad so long? Why hadn’t he sent word? Didn’t they have a radio on campus? Dad.
Please be safe, old man. You’re the only old man I have now.
The wind seemed to swirl around the house like a demon. It was happening just like Dad said. One storm after another with no time to press restart, to catch a breath, to get away.
He’d play his violin, to let the music flow through him. He pushed the door, but it was stuck again. Maybe if he rubbed the edges and frame with bar soap. He gave another push, and the door opened. He stumbled on something.
He bent to retrieve a wedge of wood. Grandma’s doorstop. That’s right, she pushed this under the door to keep it from slamming. How’d he forget that? He rubbed his eyes. Because he was exhausted, that’s how.
He propped the door open with the piece of wood then held out the candle to find his violin. Did he throw it? Light reflected off his violin, and he lifted it from the dust.
Crap. A scuff mark marred the shiny finish. He rubbed it with his thumb. A little oil would fix it. But where was the bow? He spotted it by the door.
He sat on the stool and put the violin to his chin. He played until the fluid notes eased the tension from his neck and shoulders. He played until the timer rang. Then placing his bow and violin on a shelf, he reset the timer, and poured a glass of R.
Emma’s cheeks were flushed, but her lips were still chapped. He hated to disturb her, but she needed the liquids as much as sleep. He lifted her head, her hair dirty but silky, her ponytail wrapping around his wrist.
She snorted and cracked her eyelids as she drank the entire glass. He eased her head back on the pillow, and her breathing grew deep and regular again. The smell of rotten eggs still clung to her. Maybe she’d be strong enough to shower—soon?
He stirred the fire and set another piece of wood on top then headed back to his violin. He ran through the chords, adjusting the pegs, but his mind wouldn’t settle. Emma on the log waving a branch, her almost falling off the stretcher, her light arm around his shoulders, it all plagued him. Was he doing enough?
He reached his hand to his neck where Bill had choked him until he gasped for air. The image of Chip falling to the rug, the red stain on his shirt. He couldn’t stop the images racing one after another. People were getting desperate.
He rolled his shoulders then lifted the bow. The sweet notes of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D Major” filled the space, and soon he was lost in the melody, the ringing of the timer the only distraction.
He emerged from the storage room and found Emma pushing herself on her elbows, trying to say something. He rushed to her side and raised the glass, but she shook her head.
“Toilet,” she murmured.
“Oh.” He jerked away, sloshing R onto the blanket. The bathroom, built in the 1960s, didn’t even have a fan, and she needed to use it?
He shook his head, heat rising from his neck to his cheeks. He jostled the glass as he set it on the coffee table.
“You don’t have one?”
He nodded. At some point, she’d put on the sweats, and as she stood, they hung from her thin hips. Was her face flushed? Was it from fever or embarrassment? It didn’t matter. He was certain his face was redder.
He held her elbow and guided her around the couch and to the bathroom. She bent at the waist, her tummy gurgling, her mouth twisting in a grimace. She gave him what he took to be an apology glance, and her cheeks turned brighter red. If she didn’t have an accident before they reached the bathroom, it would be a minor miracle.
She put her hand on his chest at the bathroom door. “Don’t go on any hikes or anything,” she whispered.
He slumped against the wall. At least she didn’t need help to use the toilet, and she had a sense of humor. That was a bonus. After several minutes, he began pacing the floor, the wind howling outside covering any sounds coming from the bathroom. He plopped on a kitchen chair, staring at the bathroom door. Had she passed out? The toilet flushed, and he sagged back in the chair with relief.
“Okay.” She stepped through the door.
He rushed to her side and draped her arm over his shoulder. The smell hit him, and he coughed. He hustled her to the couch then rushed back to the bathroom without inhaling.
Where was the air freshener? Plugging his nose, he pulled it from the cabinet under the sink and sprayed the toilet, then the room, then slammed the door. He rushed to the kitchen sink and scrubbed his hands. He must have been mumbling the whole time because when he turned, her shoulders were shaking. Was she laughing?
“That bad?” She held her middle and began coughing.
“Worse.”
“I’d clean it up if I could stand for more than a second without falling.”
“It’s okay. I know.” He’d have to work on his bedside manners but still… She coughed harder, and he handed her a tissue. She blew her nose and reached for the glass “Drink up.” He scratched his head. What was so funny? He’d never understand girls, especially this one.
She gulped it down and handed him an empty glass, her cheeks glowing pink. She scrunched under the blankets and closed her eyes. He sat by her side until her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm as she settled into sleep.
The fire snapped, and he rose and threw on more wood. He was alone again, but he was doing something right. She seemed to be getting better, and he wasn’t really alone. His muscles ached, and his eyelids grew heavy. He glanced at Emma then dropped into an overstuffed chair, the storm raging above them.
****
Even through the crashes of the storm, Emma slept, but so did Josh. He started setting the timer for an hour. He rose like a zombie from his half-sleep and gave her R. She’d snort in little huffs and buzzes. Was that part of her recovery? He wasn’t sure, but he would sleep as much as she did tomorrow.
He groaned and glanced at the clock, 7:04 am. “Ugh.”
He stretched his cramped muscles, the wind clattering against the siding. He’d have to check for loose boards. He craved fresh air and natural light. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he grabbed the poker and stirred the embers then threw on kindling. The fire caught, and he placed a larger piece of wood on top. Something was different. He scratched his head.
“Oh.”
It was silent.
He jogged up the stairs and out the front door, stood on the porch, reveling in the clear dawn sky. The sky overhead glowed blue and clear, but dark clouds hovered on the western horizon. The storms came so fast, like Dad’s prediction for El Primo. Trees swayed in the distance, like bobble heads nodding in the winds that grew stronger every passing second.
He locked the front door and clambered down the stairs in time to shut off the timer. Emma lifted the glass and drank without help this time, her complexion glowing. She set the empty glass on the table and rolled over, covering her head with the blanket. She didn’t utter one word.
He grunted. Her ability to sleep would be legendary if these storms ever ended and they got out of here to tell somebody. He cracked the door to the storage room, raised his violin to his chin, and stroked the bow over the strings, tuning each string, then started in on Pachelbel. Music filled the small space, and the tightness in his neck released, his back straightened. He swayed to the rhythm, until the timer rang. He was beginning to resent his grandmother’s old windup timer. It took him from the soothing melody, set his teeth on edge. He wanted to throw it in the fireplace. Leaning the violin by the door, he stepped through.
“Beautiful.” Emma held the glass he’d left for her to her lips and sipped.
“What?” He shook his head. Did she find it beautiful that she could drink on her own, or was it the R?
“The music.”
“Oh.” He ran his fingers through his hair. Was she serious? He sat in the chair by the fireplace.
“What’s it called?” Her eyes reflected the low flames from the cozy fire. She sank back on the pillows. Wisps of her hair had escaped her ponytail and created a halo around her head. The silkiness made him long to touch it. He cleared his throat and stared at his hands folded in his lap.
“Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D Major.’” Heat rose to his cheeks. How could she like his scratchy playing? He was pretty sure classical music was not on her playlist.
“It’s my mom’s favorite,” he murmured. Really, Josh, your mom? At least she hadn’t laughed at him.
“Beautiful.” She smiled, and her eyes closed as she drifted into sleep once again.
“Huh.” A chuckle escaped, and he sat back in the chair. She was attractive, sick and dirty as she was, and he couldn’t seem to redirect his gaze, as though she were a sunrise, unique and colorful. He stood to check the shower.
He might need a cold one.
****
She slept for ninety minutes. Each time the buzzer rang, he poked his head out of the storage room to make sure she drank then refilled her glass. She drank without his help now. On the fourth ring, he found Emma pushing her legs off the couch. She sat back, perspiration on her upper lip from the small effort.
“Hey, you’re not strong enough to get up.” He rushed across the room to her. Her full lips pouted, no longer chapped. He stopped. He’d almost touched her. He should have taken that cold shower.
“I feel better.” She laid her head against the couch, her face losing color.
“I’ll get the bucket.”
“I don’t need the bucket.” Her soft voice came to him like a caress, and he sank into the stuffed chair.
“I need answers.”
“Oh. Okay.” He clasped the armrests.
She stared at the fire, the only light in the room, but she never glanced at him. Did she even know he was here? It gave him an excuse to keep his eyes on her while she spoke.
“Where am I, and how did I get here?”
Oh, man. Did she remember taking off her filthy pants in the woods? Her eyes met his, and his mind whirred. He cleared his throat. “Uh, well, you are at Woolf Farm. It’s my family’s farm. I’m Josh. Woolf.” Did he hold his hand out for her to shake? He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Okay,” she murmured. She tucked her legs under the covers and slid onto the pillow, pulling the blanket to her chin.
He sank back like a stone until her breathing became soft and regular. That went well, short and sweet, which was about his limit. She would have more questions next time, though, and he gripped the armrests.
****
He set the timer for two hours, but now he just poked his head out of the storage room and, when she needed another glass of R, he’d get it. Other than that, she drank then dropped back into sleep.
Sleep would heal her, he kept telling himself, but still he sometimes sat and willed her to open her eyes as the storm destroyed the world outside. He needed answers too, like who was she?
He sank into the chair. Was that really what he wanted, though, to stick his foot in his mouth again?
****
He lifted his head from the armrest and rubbed his eyes. He’d fallen asleep. He sat up. “What?”
Sitting on the couch, she sipped from her glass. “I asked if you were asleep. I guess you were.” She grinned.
He ran his fingers through his hair. Did she wake him up? Why?
“Oh. Yeah.” He ran his fingers over the soft stubble on his chin. “You look better. R really works.”
“You look like you could use some R and a comb.” She held out her glass. “What is this stuff anyway?”
He ran his hand over his hair. “Rejuvelyte? Oh. A mix of electrolytes and vitamins for hydration. Helps when you exercise or if you’re sick.” He sat back. She gazed at him, and he looked away first. Maybe he’d pretend she was his patient, then he wouldn’t stick his foot in his mouth. “How did you get so far off the road?”
Her mouth worked like she was searching for words. “I have a problem with directions, and my phone died, so I didn’t have Maps.” She paused then gazed at him, her eyes tearing. “When I got home, my mom was gone, out looking for me, I guess. And I lost Cuddles.” She slumped over, her shoulders shaking, her head in her hands.
He sat stunned, trying to process her progression from okay to not okay. He didn’t know what to say. Nothing she said made sense, but he gathered she’d come from Vandby and missed her mom. That part he got.
He glanced around the basement and then at her. He sat in a comfy chair by a warm fire in his own home. He got messages from Uncle Carl, and he could hike to his uncle’s house if things got too bad.
“I’m sorry.”
She didn’t respond, and he rushed to her side. He checked her pulse, but she was only asleep. Why did she still sleep so much?
****
Emma rustled on the couch, and he stepped out of the storage room to check. She lay on her side, her hair covering her face. He tossed a couple pieces of wood on the fire then closed the screen.
“It’s so cozy down here.” She had rolled over, and the firelight glinted off her dark eyes. Her face was no longer angular and pinched. Had she been watching him? He couldn’t move or speak.
She scowled at the flames. “You saved me. Thanks for that.” She glanced at him as she sat. “I was so unprepared for this, and you are prepared for everything.”
“Oh. Um.” That was the last thing he expected her to say. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “We try. My family, I mean, but it seems like no matter how prepared you are, you’re never prepared enough.” Her eyes never left his face. “Lots of people out here have generators, wells, gardens. The power usually goes out twice, sometimes three times, a year. We’re on the outskirts of the grid, you know?”
“What was your name again?”
“Josh. Woolf.” He waited. She moved from topic to topic so fast he couldn’t keep up.
“Do you know Dr. Woolf? I heard him speak at one of the climate marches.”
“Oh.” He glanced at her, taking in her small form, her slender hands. “Yeah. He’s my dad. How do you know him?”
“Your dad? Wow. I’m such a fan. He came to our Youth for the Planet March one time to talk about changing weather patterns and monster storms.”
“That sounds like him.”
“So why isn’t he here? Why did he leave if he knew this was going to happen?”
That last question stung, and he swallowed hard. “He didn’t know…when it would happen, I mean. So, I guess he got caught off guard, like everyone else.”
She gave him a thin smile, and he continued.
“He was at a conference this weekend, but hopefully he’s on his way home.” He clamped his mouth shut. How much did she want to know?
“El Primo.” She nodded. “That’s right. Why didn’t the government do something? This didn’t need to happen.” She balled her hands into fists and shook them as she talked. She sank into the pillows and blew her bangs out of her face. “I can’t believe he named it,” she said, then closed her eyes.
He rubbed his face in his hands. What had he gotten himself into?