Sometimes I dream of the tornado. I am in a burned-out
building on a high floor. I can hear it somewhere in the
distance. The roar of it. The sound of trees being pulled
out by their roots.
Where I am, all is still. Everything around me seems to
be waiting. I want to run away, but I can’t tell exactly
where the tornado is. I search from one broken-out hole
where a window used to be to the next, trying to see it,
but other buildings are in the way and I can see nothing.
It is coming. I can’t get away.
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