by McCall Hoyle
Finn picks up where he left off. “The three of us scooted chairs up to the bed. I pulled some of my favorite pictures out of the shoe box. Dad fishing with Grandpa off the Nags Head pier. Mom shoving cake in Dad’s mouth at their wedding. Me on his shoulders playing chicken at the pool. Zeke told a story about this psychotic dog that bit Dad in the butt. Mom told the story about how she threw up on their first date. We laughed a lot. The stories just kind of wound down. The sun was setting as I closed the shoe box.”
He draws in a long, slow breath, then meets my eyes. “As soon as I closed the box and our laughter ended, Dad’s breathing hitched. My mom told him it was okay to go. The three of us held hands around his bed. Zeke was singing ‘Amazing Grace,’ and then Dad just left us. I don’t know how to explain it, but it was peaceful. I’ve never felt anything like it. All I can say is if that’s what it’s like to die, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
He looks at my crossed arms and tilted jaw. “What?” he asks.
“You’re not the only one who’s experienced a loss, Finn.” I pick a piece of lint off my pants. “And maybe it left you feeling all warm and fuzzy, but it ruined my family.”
For once, he doesn’t speak. He just sits there, waiting for me to continue—no smart-aleck comments, no Zen Buddhism. And once again, I open my mouth. I’m not sure if it’s because of the dropping barometric pressure, the tug of the full moon, or just being locked in a closet with Finn Sanders during a hurricane.
“My sister was the center of our family. She was like a people magnet—old people, young people, you name it. They all loved her.” Despite my racing pulse and fists, I continue. “I loved her—I still love her . . .” My voice cracks.
Finn sits like a hunter in a tree stand, hyper-focused on my face and perfectly still—like I’m a deer at the edge of a clearing, alert and ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
But I don’t bolt. I barrel ahead. “But my big sister never got her chance to suck every drop of life out of life.” I pause to let him hear how ridiculous his words sound twisted and thrown back in his face.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice so quiet I can’t be certain whether he said it or just mouthed the words.
Normally, this is where I would shut down, drop the steel door on my emotions, block out anyone and everyone—even Yesenia. But for some unexplainable reason, my mouth barrels ahead of my self-control.
“They were on their way home from the feed store on the mainland. Dad texted to say there was an accident on the bypass, and they were taking the beach road. Nobody knows for sure what happened next. All I know for sure is Dad hit a dump truck head-on. They had to cut him and my sister out of the car. They said it was a miracle they survived the impact. Dad walked away with a broken arm and some cuts and bruises, the other guy without a scratch. But we didn’t know if Meredith would live. She did, but she had a TBI—” I skip the part about the truck driver accusing Dad of texting and driving. The police verified Dad’s last text was sent several minutes before the crash. No charges were filed. Dad never talked about what he was doing with his phone at the time of the accident, and we never asked. The guilt was already eating at him. It seemed too cruel and too judgmental to push the subject despite the rumors that his forest ranger connections with local law enforcement might have encouraged the cops to look the other way.
Finn shakes his head, and I remember not everyone knows as much about the human brain as I do.
“She had a traumatic brain injury.” I swallow, forcing myself to look at him. It’s still hard for me to talk about it. “As if that wasn’t bad enough, the day after the wreck she had a stroke. The doctors think it was a result of the trauma to the blood vessels in her brain. It messed her up—bad. She had to relearn how to walk, and swallow, and all sorts of horrible stuff. And it changed her. She was no longer the prima ballerina of our family, dancing her way through life. She was depressed and angry.” My voice cracks again. “She’ll never be the—”
Now I’m the one tilting my head back and closing my eyes.
It has nothing to do with my chill attitude and everything to do with trying not to cry.
He places a hand on my knee. This time I stiffen. I didn’t tell him my story for sympathy. I told it to prove my point.
“Sophie, I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I count to ten, then open my eyes. His face swims in my blurry vision. When I look at him, I believe him. He doesn’t say at least she’s alive or any of the other stupid things people tried to tell me after the accident.
There’s no laughter in his eyes. He’s not opening his mouth to argue his point. I don’t know how to explain it. He just—is. He’s in the moment, not fighting me, not fighting anything—just still and quiet . . . and serious.
Something else is weird. I don’t feel exactly relaxed; it’s definitely not peace. But it’s like the fist gripping my chest unclenched a little when I shared my story out loud. It’s like every muscle fiber in my body has been tight as a piano wire for so long, I forgot what it felt like to not be rigid.
Then glass shatters outside the closet, and whatever was happening to me—whatever was happening between us—is gone.
We sit frozen in place.
Listening.
What we hear is much, much worse than driving rain or gale-force winds.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The night comes on that knows not morn . . .
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Is that what I think it is?” I ask, shaking my head. We sit in the closet, paralyzed. I pray I’m wrong. Pray the water I hear is pounding rain or the sound of the ocean carried toward us on the wind. Pray it’s not what I think it is.
But Finn nods and grabs my hand. I scoot toward him. I know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth. “It’s the waves. Storm surge. We must be closer to shore than we realized.”
Not good.
Not. Good. At. All.
I squeeze my eyes shut. This cannot be happening. I have no idea what time it is—maybe eight or nine. We’ve been in this closet for what feels like forever, or all day at the least. It’s night again—maybe a little over twenty-four hours since Mom and Mere left for Williamston. Mom must be worried sick. And it’s my fault. I thought I had everything under control. I should have found Jim sooner. I should have done something about my tires. I shouldn’t have wasted time cleaning up trash.
“It’s waves. We’ve got to move.” He shoves on his flip-flops, and then pulls me to my feet, interrupting the thoughts spiraling in my head. We duck to avoid banging our heads on the hanging rod above us.
I lace on my still-damp shoes, thankful I thought to place them with the closet rations, then grab the compass hanging around my neck and tuck it inside my shirt. Seconds later, Finn pushes the closet door open. With the windows shattered on this side of the house and no door to muffle the sound, the ocean crashes, churns, and growls. I picture greedy waves devouring the dunes and our little sanctuary perched on the brink of disaster. If the house goes, we go. Finn and I both know the storm surge is a thousand times more powerful and deadly than the wind. If it gets a hold of us, we’re toast—waterlogged toast.
Finn grabs the flashlight, pulling me through the living room. When he turns the knob on the door leading to the deck, the force of the wind slams it into his chest.
“Look out,” he screams, then ducks his head and pulls me out into the storm.
We fight the wind to the deck rail and peer down into the dark. As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I realize the clumps of white creeping beneath the house aren’t sand. They’re sea foam, frothing ahead of the approaching surge of waves.
“We’re going to have to run for it,” he shouts over the wind.
“Where?” I ask, cupping my hand above my eyes to block out the shards of rain ripping at my face.
He pulls me toward the stairs leading down to the carport. “Farther inland. Anywhere.”
He and I both know the dangers. We’ve heard
the stories of vehicles washed away by twelve inches of flood water moving a few miles per hour. We don’t know the terrain, and it’s pitch black. It wouldn’t take much of an accident to cause a slip. We could be separated in an instant and one or both of us dragged out to sea, or whacked in the head with floating debris, or electrocuted by downed power lines in the water.
I shiver, and it’s not from the freezing rain. Tightening my grip on his hand, I scurry after him down the stairs. Icy water rushes over my foot when I step down to the concrete pad under the house, and my flannel pajama pants twist around my ankles like gnarled hands. The ocean thunders around us from every direction. Hunched forward, hands clasped, we run headlong down the driveway. In a matter of minutes, we’ve gone from safe hidey-hole to out of control. What I thought was our sanctuary morphed into a deathtrap.
When Finn stops short, I slam into his back and remember to breathe.
My drenched shirt presses against his drenched shirt. The wind and rain drown out his next words, but he points at a fallen pine tree blocking our path. The thing could’ve killed us if it had fallen on our way to the house. He steps up onto the trunk and hops down on the far side. I press my hand against the lump under my shirt. I will not lose Mere’s compass. It’s my last link to her and Mom. Even if it’s only a symbolic connection, I’m holding on to it for dear life.
Finn shouts something else I can’t understand, but I get the gist of what he’s trying to communicate from his hand gestures. He wants us to follow the yellow line in the middle of the road. I kind of want to follow him, but he’s heading north—back the way we came. The houses spread out farther north, which means less chance for shelter. It seems illogical to head that way. We should head south toward civilization, where we’re more likely to run into people riding out the storm or emergency personnel.
When he tugs on my hand a second time, I still don’t budge. He turns to face me, eyes wide, rivers of water running down his face.
He leans in to my ear, shouting over the wind. “There’s a volunteer fire department a few miles north, and Zeke’s that way.”
I want to argue, but his point about the volunteer fire department makes sense. They’ll be first to get back power, phone service, and water after the storm. I compromise, telling myself this will go better than his back-roads-will-save-time reasoning, despite the painful twisting in my stomach.
We head north, bent at the waist like mountain climbers as we fight the wind. I have no idea how far we’ve gone. If I had to guess, not very far. Every step is a battle.
I study the ground immediately in front of my feet as we struggle forward. The second time Finn stops, I catch myself before barreling into him. He’s pointing at a mailbox. Squinting, I try to read his lips.
“A house!” he shouts.
And he’s right. A very large, very expensive, very sturdy house squats on a rise to our left, maybe a couple hundred yards farther inland than the last cottage. A glimmer of hope lights in my chest. Shaking a fist at the black sky, I tilt my head back and smile.
We’re saved.
Our hope reignited, we move faster than before up a small rise to the large house sitting atop a four-car garage. As we approach, Finn grabs my hand and gestures up to the front windows. There appears to be a flickering light inside—a lantern maybe. I should be thrilled. But something about the quivering light and the horizontal sheets of rain in the dark night makes me shiver.
Cursing Dad and Mere for the horror movie marathons Mom never knew about, I shake off the worry. Where there is light without power, there must be humans. Where there are humans, there must be adults. There can’t be any other teenagers trapped alone in this storm. That only happens in scary movies, and this is not a scary movie. This is as real as it gets. Plus, Finn doesn’t seem worried as he drags me up the steps to the expansive deck that wraps around the entire house.
Where the roof extends over the front door, the wind isn’t quite as piercing. I can hear Finn when he speaks.
“We made it, Bookworm!” He squeezes my shoulder, giving me a little shake.
As he lifts his heavy flashlight to bang on the door, I smile. “Yeah, we did.”
After a few quick raps, the door swings open. A wide-eyed man older than my father stares at us. His eyes survey us one at a time and head to toe. Under other circumstances, he might frighten me. Under these circumstances, his sturdy house and massive lantern offer a promise of refuge from the weather. Besides, inviting two strangers into his home must be more of a risk for him than going in is for us.
When he gestures for us to enter, we scurry across the threshold. He shuts the door behind us, blocking out much of the noise from the storm.
“What are you two doing out in this?” he barks, then levels his eyes on me. Something about his jittery eyes makes me nervous.
He wipes a sheen of sweat or rain—I can’t be sure which—from his forehead.
“We wrecked,” Finn says, seeming to sense my uneasiness.
I appreciate him answering and drawing the man’s attention away from me. I glance around the high-ceilinged room as they talk and realize the house is made mostly of walls of glass. It’s just as huge as it looked from the road but not nearly as sturdy, and the roof is already leaking in several places. To make matters worse, the man has lit candles all over the place, which everyone who knows anything about hurricanes knows is a major no no—it’s the number one cause of fires during power outages.
The fear in my gut flares. Dad always said, “The key ingredients to handling any crisis are a clear plan and a calm head.” This guy doesn’t seem to have either.
Finn’s eyes meet mine. He seems to be able to read my thoughts. “Maybe we should find a place with less glass farther inland,” he says to the man.
“No!” the man growls, deep and low.
I take a step back.
Finn reaches a hand in front of his chest. It hits me that he looks way more adult than the adult in this situation. “You know the saying—run from water, hide from wind.”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” The man gestures wildly around the room. “I’m inside, away from the wind.”
“But all this glass is going to go eventually,” Finn reasons.
“I’m not leaving. I sunk my life savings into this place, and I’m staying here to protect it.”
Finn tries to speak. “Please—”
“Listen, kid. If you know everything, why don’t you move on?”
Finn opens his mouth. When he does, a gust of wind whooshes under the crack in the door. A candle falls on the couch and smolders. The man rushes past me to snuff it out.
“It will be ruined!” he says as he beats the small flames into submission. “That couch cost five grand.”
Finn looks at me, eyebrows raised in question. I know what he’s thinking; this man is losing it. He doesn’t realize the danger of his candles, and he’s way more concerned about a couch than his own life.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Nodding, Finn grabs my hand and pulls me to the door.
“Hey, kids.” The man raises a fist at us. “You and your friends better stay away after the storm. There won’t be any looting around here.”
My insides churn like the storm. I’m relieved to say goodbye to this irrational man with the wild eyes and the hazardous candles. At the same time, I’m terrified to face what an enraged Mother Nature has in store for us outside.
Finn shakes his head at the man. As he leads me toward the door, I bite my lip and pray for better luck at the next house.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Now we’re back where we started, trudging up the middle of the dark road and searching for shelter. The lack of sleep, stress overload, and storm effects must be making me delirious, because when the doo-doo-DOO-doo of the Twilight Zone theme song buzzes in my head, irrational laughter wells in my thr
oat. I feel like we’ve been sucked through time and space into some low-quality black-andwhite movie.
My calf muscles complain as we plod forward, reminding me this is no joke. I know Mom and Mere must be worried sick, and Mom’s friend Carla too.
“Look out,” Finn shouts as he jumps to the right.
But the wind is loud, and I’m so distracted that I don’t move out of the way fast enough. Something whacks me in the shin. A beer bottle maybe. I scream through gritted teeth. I know I scream because the noise vibrates inside my head, but I can’t hear it with my ears.
“Are you—” Before he finishes, something else grazes my shoulder.
It doesn’t hurt like the bottle to the shin, so I press forward. As a warm rush of liquid pours down my arm, I realize I’ve got a problem. Finn turns back to me, his face hovering inches above mine. Concern registers in his eyes as he shines the flashlight he’s been preserving on my cold face. He looks like something out of a scary movie with its light flickering on his wet face, eyes wide, mouth open, his black hair whipping in the wind like Medusa’s snakes. When he lowers the flashlight to my shoulder, a pink stain spreads like spilled fruit punch across my shirt. And there’s a lot of pink. I backpedal as he reaches toward my neck.
“Stop, Sophie. Let me see it,” he shouts over the wind. The muscles in his cheek twitch as he pushes the flashlight into my hands. With both his hands free, he reaches toward my collarbone. I follow his movement with the light. When I spot the jagged shard protruding from the soft spot between my neck and shoulder, my knees go weak. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like the twisted lid of a soup can. My God, the thing could have pierced my jugular. I could have . . . could have . . . died—bled out in the middle of an empty road in the center of the hurricane straight from Hades.
I blink, trying to keep my blurry world in focus. I will not pass out—will not pass out.
