“Yeah.” The air conditioner kicked on and Foster shivered in the cool breeze. “I just need a few things, Band-Aids, water…” She bit her bottom lip to keep her teeth from clacking.
“Over by the headache pills and all of them feminine lady things.” He winked and motioned to the back of the store.
“Thanks.” Foster attempted a polite smile, but felt her lips twist into a disgusted grimace. No matter how hard she tried, being polite didn’t come easily, especially not to bumpkin Neanderthals. And, well, maybe she wasn’t trying that hard.
Foster’s shoes squeaked on the sticky tile as she turned down the first aisle, the steady thwack thwack echoing behind her. With practiced expertise she plucked her favorite snacks from the shelves as she wound her way to the back of the store. She had made enough stops at enough stores like this to know exactly which, out of all of the gross processed foods, would stay in your stomach and which would leave you sprinting from the car to the nearest roadside ditch. Her stomach grumbled as if in remembrance. She’d made that mistake a few times.
Staying as far away from the cold air of the reach-in as possible, she grabbed enough bottles of water to not only stay hydrated, but also to rinse Tate’s wound and some of the grime from her own hands and face.
She tucked a box of large Band-Aids and gauze under her chin, snagged a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a tube of triple antibiotic goo and waddled, arms full, to the checkout counter.
“And I’ll take a couple of these.” She pulled two SOMEBODY IN MISSOURI LOVES ME Tshirts off the rack by the register and threw them onto the pile.
The man grunted, taking the chewed toothpick from his mouth and pointing it at the TV. “Always gotta be at least two people out there in them damn storms.”
The flickering image cleared, and her pulse quickened.
It was her.
“One idgit out there like this one filming with one of them smart phones,” he continued. “And at least one other out there in the thick of it. Dumb ass rednecks.”
No, it was them. She watched Tate join her as both of them lifted their hands and actually paused the tornado.
“Well I’ll be…” His hand fell to his side and the toothpick made a hollow clink as it bounced off the counter and onto the floor.
Her mouth went dry and she swallowed hard as she watched Tate stretch his arm back and … Static swallowed the image.
Foster lowered the cap over her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to hide the rip across the front of her soaked sweatshirt. “Just this stuff.” Her hands trembled as she dug through the bag for Cora’s wallet.
“Hey, that’s you in the middle of that ball field,” his gaze swept over her, pausing at her dirt-caked hands, the rip in her shirt, and finally on the long tail of muddy hair draped across her shoulder. “Ain’t it?”
“Me?” Her attempt at a casual laugh sounded more like the bray of a strangled goat. “Nah,” she shrugged. “No way. That’s not me. I don’t like sports. At all. Football’s even at the top of my sports I hate list.” She bit the inside of her cheeks to silence her nervous bleating.
“No, no, that was you.” His wisps of hair fluttered as he bobbed his head up and down. “Same Panther’s sweatshirt. Same red hair. What’d you do to that tornado? I’ve seen my share of ’em out here, what with ’em poppin’ up every other week here in the past few months, and I ain’t never seen one stop. Not like that. Not like it was listenin’ to you tellin’ it to.” His twang deepened as his words came out in a rush of excitement. “Oh, man. I gotta call my cousin Bobby. He works up there at the news station. Be willin’ to pay at least fifty bucks for a real-life tornado tamin’,” he paused, yanking his phone from his pocket. “Whatever you are.”
“Wait! You don’t want to do that.” Foster spoke automatically, willing him to hear her. Instantly, energy crackled over her body, a lot like a hot wind had just blown across her naked skin—which made zero sense.
But then the pudgy man spoke, and Foster understood what had happened—what had actually happened for the very first time since she didn’t count accidentally putting Tate to sleep.
“Guess I don’t,” his shoulders lifted and fell in an exhausted sigh. “Do I?”
Foster blinked. “Shit, it worked. I mean, it actually worked.”
His thick, sweat-streaked brow wrinkled with confusion.
“Uh, okay, so,” Foster glanced at his nametag. “Billy Bob, really?”
“Named after my uncle and my daddy.” He grinned proudly.
“I just,” she shook her head. “Anyway, I’m going to take these things, and you’re not going to remember that I ever came in here.”
“I never remember nothin’.” He nodded. “Would you like a sack for all that?” he asked, already bagging her goods.
“Um, thank … thank you, Billy Bob.”
He pulled another toothpick from behind his ear and stuck it between his lips. “Pleasure.”
Foster was halfway to the door when guilt washed over her. “Crap.” She took out a couple wadded twenties and hurried back to the counter. “For,” she made a sweeping motion that took in the bag and the fuzzy television screen. “Everything.”
Foster burst out of the Quickie Mart, excitement turning her walk into fervent skips. “Cora is going to pass out when I tell her—” She stopped short of the door to the truck, sorrow slamming into her gut.
She’d never have the chance to tell Cora anything ever again.
Foster doubled over. Chunks spewed from her mouth, coating the wet gravel in mockingly cheerful shades of brightly colored sour candy.
She passed the back of her shaking hand across her lips. “Get it together, Foster. You can’t make this guy come with you if you’re falling apart, and Cora said he has to come. So…” She dug out a bottle of water and rinsed her mouth before squeezing the handle and hefting herself onto the seat. “I got stuff to clean that cut,” she announced, swallowing back her despair. “And some beef jerky. It’s practically a road-trip requirement.”
Tate grunted, his head lolling to the side to rest on the window. Soft snores spilled out of his parted lips and Foster pulled back onto the two-lane road, hot tears silently slipping down her cheeks.
6