35
Chuck the weatherman predicted wind. An almighty, spinning wind. Not an F5. Maybe not even an F4, but at the very least, an F3 tornado, touching down any day soon.
He'd called a twister the day before. And the day before that. Neither had materialized. But today, he said, or tomorrow, or the day after that, for sure. Either in the morning, afternoon, or evening.
Sometime during the day.
Or night.
"Specific, Chuck, thanks," Alice said, stretching behind the wheel of the Explorer.
"Hang on to your hats, folks," Chuck said. "We're getting our September quota."
The Midwest wasn't called Tornado Alley for nothing. And poor old Mayflower was one of those out of the way places that often bore the thick end of nature. Over the centuries, the town had seen its fair share of destruction. W
