Tate shivered like a horse knocking off flies. “That sensation all over my skin. It started as soon as you said you wished a tornado would—”
The roar of a descending funnel cloud cut off Tate’s words. Foster’s eyes felt cemented to the scene unfolding in her rearview mirror. A stone gray tor nado touched down behind them—neatly cutting off the path of the Range Rover, and anyone else who had the bad luck to be following.
“Thank you,” Foster whispered automatically, immediately feeling foolish for doing so.
I didn’t just make that happen. That wasn’t me. Was it?
“You are welcome. You felt it, too, didn’t you?” Tate said.
Foster frowned at him. “Okay, first, I wasn’t thanking you. I was thanking the, um, universe for that.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder. Tate turned in his seat—again grimacing in pain. Foster glanced down at his leg. A crimson stain soaked his uniform. That might actually be bad. We have to get something to fix that ASAP. “And second, what feeling are you talking about?”
Still turned in his seat, gawking behind them, Tate seemed not to hear her. “Daaaaamn. That tornado is not playing. No one’s getting past it. Seriously. It’s just sitting there, spinning, like a glitching video game.”
Foster did a mental eye roll. Of course he’s a gamer.
Tate finally turned back around. “You can slow down now.”
Foster somehow managed to relax her foot enough to let up on the gas.
“All right. Tell me,” Tate said.
Foster glanced at him. He stared at her.
“Tell you what?”
“That you felt it, too. It was like on the football field. Something happened to me. To us. I felt it all over my skin. Tell me you felt it, too.”
Foster didn’t take her eyes off the road. She sighed and said the first thing that came to her mind. “Truthfully, the only thing I want to tell you right now is that I wish you’d do like the picture book says and go the fuck to sleep.” Heat needled her skin and Foster held very still, waiting for whatever the hell would happen next.
Inside the window-rattling silence of the truck, Tate’s sudden yawn was fantastically loud.
“Man, I can’t think straight. My leg hurts. I’m so tired. Everything that happened today just doesn’t seem real…” He propped his elbow against the window, dropped his head against his fist, and yawned mightily again. “I can’t believe Mom and Dad are gone. It’s not real, right? Tell me we’re stuck in a nightmare and I’ll wake up soon in my bed with Mom telling me I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.”
“Yeah,” she forced her voice to soften. “If calling it a nightmare makes it better then I’m good with that. And thankfully, we’re almost out of town.”
Because your town is pretty much the size of a super Wal-Mart. She thought that part. It was best not to poke the sleepy bear.
“Wait, what was I saying? My head doesn’t feel right.”
“Rest while I drive. I remember there’s a little store just up the freeway. I’ll run in, grab some stuff to fix that cut on your leg, some sustenance, maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll even have something to wear that’s not covered in mud and”—she glanced down at the grime clinging to her ripped sweatshirt—“whatever else. You’ll feel better after you sleep, change, and get something to eat.”
“Fine, but when I wake up we gotta get back there and start helping people,” Tate grumbled, his eyelids drooping to half-mast and then closing completely.
Foster adjusted the rearview mirror. Behind them the wall cloud continued to maul the sky, and the rain-wrapped tornado was barely visible, and there definitely wasn’t any sign of Matthew, Mark, and Luke’s Range Rover. But a knot of worry sat in her stomach, heavy and thick like she’d eaten too much cheese.
She’d felt it. She’d definitely felt it—not that she wanted to talk to Tate about it. Why the hell would she? Like she trusted him? A stranger? Plus, then she might have to admit that she’d also felt her Jedi mind trick working. Foster cut her eyes to Tate.
Sure enough, Tate was zonked out—sleeping so deeply that his hands twitched with a dream.
Did I really do that, too?
Lost in her thoughts, the Quickie Mart seemed to pop up out of nowhere and Foster made a sharp turn into the gravel parking lot.
Tate’s head shot up and he grunted disapprovingly.
“Sorry.” Foster left the truck running and slid out of the cab. “Any requests?”
Half asleep, or possibly half passed out, Tate mumbled something unintelligible and shooed her away.
“Hey, don’t be upset when I don’t bring you back anything,” Foster said, slinging the satchel over her shoulder and scratching the base of her disgustingly matted bun. Her head itched. Her face itched. Hell, any exposed skin grew more and more itchy and uncomfortable as the mud dried, tightened, and turned into gross dirt scabs. Foster reached behind the seat, grabbed a dusty Spartan hat, and smashed it down over her tangled hair. With a sigh, she brushed away the dirt she could from her damp top, closed the door, and trudged toward the Quickie Mart, head down against the endless rain.
Thwack! Foster tensed as she opened the dingy, rain-streaked door. Thwack! Thwack, thwack!
“Dagnabit, piece a crap television. Work!” He reared back a pale, pudgy hand and smacked the side of the clunky box. Thwack!
“Umm,” Foster cleared her throat, and let the door swing shut behind her as she wiped water and who knew what else from her face. “Excuse me?”
The attendant hopped from his step stool, wincing when his feet hit the ground. “Caught out in that storm, huh?” He wiped a yellowing handkerchief down his cheeks, pink with exertion. “Not even an umbrella will save you from the rain now. Not no more.” He felt behind his ear and pulled out a toothpick. “It’s like them storms suddenly got minds of they own.” He grunted, shoving the toothpick between his lips while scratching at his bulging stomach.