Page 40 of Dallas Rivals

Grandma would’ve called it bad energy.

What the hell is this? Nerves? Or something else?

I open the bathroom door and freeze.

The radio’s on.

My parents never play the radio.

Through the static, a distorted voice repeats coordinates, then the same phrase over and over⁠—

“Tornado warning. Take Shelter now. Tornado warning. Take Shelter now”

A second later, a horn blares outside—long and panicked.

Through the rain-smeared window, headlights cut through the dark.

Mr. Walker’s SUV.

Before I can reach the door, it bursts open.

Wind rushes in, carrying dirt and the metallic scent of storm.

He’s already inside, shouting.

“There’s no time! Lucien, take my shoulders—now!”

Everything turns into chaos.

The air’s thick with electricity; the floor trembles.

The smell of wet earth and gasoline mixes with the stew still cooking on the stove.

Mr. Walker moves like a soldier—steady, commanding—lifting my father as if he weighs nothing.

I grab the wheelchair, my mother’s hand clutching my sleeve as she prays louder and louder.

The world outside howls.

The rain’s coming sideways, needling my face, stinging cold.

We pile into his SUV and he floors it, headlights slicing through sheets of rain.

The sound of debris scraping the ground fills my ears—a thousand claws dragging across the dirt road.

The sky flashes white, then violet, then black again.

At his house, he jumps out first, muscles tensed, barking orders over the roar of the wind.

“Go, go, go! Downstairs, now!”

Under the grand staircase, he yanks open a hatch I hadn’t even noticed before—a steel door leading to a narrow set of steps.

The air inside smells like dust and cold metal, a safe pocket beneath the chaos.

Eliza’s already there with Astro, her face pale but calm.

“Here! Quick!” she shouts, pointing to a space cleared for my father’s chair.