I feel it the moment I step out of my car at the tiny house. It’s 7:15 AM on what should be a normal Tuesday. The sky is still mostly blue, but the horizon’s tinged with that weird yellow light that never means anything good, and the birds are too quiet.
My phone buzzes while I’m grabbing my coffee and tool bag.
SEVERE WEATHER WARNING: Thunderstorms expected this afternoon. Potential for flash flooding, high winds, and power outages. Residents advised to secure outdoor items and avoid travel after 2 PM.
“Perfect,” I mutter, taking in the skeletal frame of my house. The foundation is finally solid and the walls are up, but the whole thing is still halfway between salvageable and catastrophe. The windows—three weeks late—aren’t due until Friday, and every opening is sealed with plastic sheeting and prayer.
Owen’s truck pulls in just as I’m compiling a mental list of all the ways a high wind could undo the last four weeks of ourlives. He gets out already looking tenser than usual, which for Owen means his jaw is clenched 2% tighter and his eyebrows have fully merged.
“Morning,” I call, holding up my phone. “Saw the alert?”
“Checked the radar on the way over.” He doesn’t bother with hellos, just sweeps the site like he’s triangulating danger. “It’s moving faster than expected. We need to get ahead of it.”
“What’s my job?”
He rattles off a list without hesitation: retarp the window openings, move loose materials into the camper, sandbag around the north foundation wall. His voice is calm but quick, and I match his pace, falling into the efficient rhythm we’ve developed—no wasted motion, no explanations needed.
For the next hour we move in lockstep, the sky darkening above us. There’s something eerily satisfying about how seamlessly we work together now—like our muscles remember things we haven’t said out loud. He hands me the exact thing I’m about to ask for. I move before he gestures. We don’t talk much, but we don’t have to.
“The wind’s shifting,” I say, holding down a tarp that’s turned into a sail. “How much time?”
He glances up. The blue’s gone now—replaced by thick slate and a green-gray smear across the horizon. “Not enough. We need to get the roof tarp secure and stash everything else inside.”
I nod and bolt toward his truck. “Grabbing more rope and sandbags.”
There’s the flicker of a nod from him, and I think it might be approval. I’m halfway back with the supplies when my phone buzzes again.
FLASH FLOOD WARNING UPGRADED: Immediate precautions advised. Storm front advancing rapidly. Arrival expected within 45 minutes.
Thunder rolls in just as I finish reading.
“New alert,” I say breathlessly when I return. “We’ve got forty-five minutes. Maybe less.”
“We focus on water prevention,” Owen says, already shifting our plan. “Foundation drainage isn’t connected yet.”
For the next half hour we move with urgency. The clouds have turned thick and low, swallowing the light. The wind howls through the trees and snaps the tarps with enough force to make me flinch. Lightning flashes closer now, and for a few seconds at a time, the entire build glows blue-white before going dark again.
“Last one,” I yell, dragging the final sandbag into place. The first big drops splatter the plywood beside me. “Anything else?”
“Inside,” Owen calls, scooping up the last of the tools. “We need to check for leaks.”
We make it through the door seconds before the sky opens. One moment it’s a few isolated drops, the next it’s a waterfall. The noise on the tarp-covered roof is deafening, like standing under a freight train.
“That was close,” I pant, dropping the toolbox. “Think everything will hold?”
Owen’s already inspecting the seams. “Some leaks. Small ones. We need towels and sheeting—supply closet.”
I head toward the framed-out space that will eventually be a utility closet, just as another lightning flash throws the house into harsh relief. A split second later, thunder cracks so loud it rattles in my teeth.
And then everything goes dark.
The power—rigged up to the main grid through a temporary connection—cuts out, plunging us into gray shadows and stormlight.
“Owen?” I say, disoriented.
“I’m here,” he answers from across the room. “Check your signal.”
I glance at my phone. “Nothing. Must’ve takenout a tower.”
