“It feels a lot safer when the weather man says it,” Ronnie remarks.
We see it coming from the suspended highway. Its path set on our tiny key in the
Atlantic. Here, no warning can advise us. The rumbling skies stir the ocean below it.
“Yea let’s go tell the others,” I say.
I leave her staring at the gathering clouds. I run up the slope to the camp. Thunder growls at my back and they all understand. We move in frenzy until the rain comes. Our flimsy tents rattle. Outside the wind carries Ronnie’s manic shout: “It’s here!”