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The Indiana Weather Service has issued a TORNADO WARNING for Vermillion County on
April 19, 1996, at 6:40 p.m. Take SHELTER IMMEDIATELY in the basement that has a pile of
insulation melting, like filthy cotton candy, into a pool of stagnant water on the floor. In the
basement’s only dry corner, you’ll find the EMERGENCY KIT that your parents made when
you and your family were first stationed in the tornado belt. By now, its beans and Neosporin
have expired, but it still houses some ratty blankets, and your old doll, Penny, whose presence
fills you with dread because you know she’s spent all these years alone. After opening the
EMERGENCY KIT, your parents will unfold two lawn chairs for you and your brother, where
you’ll sit uneasily as the sky bruises into green. Just as the WIND GUSTS (>65-70 mph) begin
to pry apart the vinyl siding and the GOLF BALL-SIZED HAIL (~2 inches) ricochets off the
slim window near the ceiling, prepare yourself for a strange look to pass over your mother’s face.
“I want to see the storm,” she’ll whisper before whirling up the stairs. Your father, not yet used
to this ATMOSPHERIC INSTABILITY, will run after her so quickly that he’ll slip sideways on
the slick floor. You and your brother will remain in the SHELTER, even though your parents left
the door wide open behind them. When this happens, try to remember the TORNADO DRILL
exercise from school. The one where your teacher pulled you and your classmates into the
hallway, so you could learn to tuck your head into your lap, like a little beetle on a branch. Be
warned though that when you try to show your baby brother how to do it, he’ll wail so hard in
your ear that you won’t be able to hear the HEAVY RAIN (2 to 3 inches of rain expected) and
the tango of your parents’ feet overhead. When the CLOUD-TO-GROUND LIGHTNING
shakes the cracked concrete, your heart will hammer, and your hands will ache from being balled
into fists, but just as you start to join your brother’s squalling, your parents will finally return.
You’ll expect them to rush over to you, but instead, your mom will stand by the window and
scornfully say, “I wanted to see it from the front window,” and your dad will only scowl and sit
down on the blue Tupperware bin that serves as your EMERGENCY KIT, where he’ll stay in
stony silence for the next half hour. At last, when the WINDS (now 20-35 mph sustained, with
35-45 mph occasional gusts) die down, you and your family will leave the SHELTER. The sky
will be MOSTLY CLOUDY, and the backyard will be mostly cleared because all your toys will
be pushed up against the chain-link fence. As your parents go inside the house, too resentful to
speak, they’ll flip on the TV, where a middle-aged man with a broad face will announce that the
storm’s been downgraded to a SEVERE THUNDERSTORM. “The worst of it is over now,”
he’ll assure you with a knowing expression that you’d almost be willing to believe, if you didn’t
know that he’s just plain wrong.

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Emily M. Hall has a PhD in contemporary Anglophone fiction, with an expertise in experimental novels, from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Her prose has appeared, or is forthcoming, in places such as Passages North, Gooseberry Pie Lit, Blood Orange Review, Does It Have Pockets, 100 Word Story, Cherry Tree, and The Dribble Drabble Review. She’s a prose editor for Pictura Journal and lives in North Carolina with her husband. You can find her on Bluesky: @emhall47.