Loud pulsating country music. A rickety old pickup truck. Tyler Owen’s raucous laughter as the truck barrels offroad and towards the twister developing in the empty field. Your fingers are clenched tightly onto every surface in the truck you can grab that doesn’t have some sort of button on it. You hate storms. You hate Tyler’s business; you just come along out of loyalty to him. He thinks you love it. You wouldn’t break his heart for the world.

Suddenly it clicks inside of you. That boiling, lead-solid feeling in the pit of your stomach as he floors it towards the tornado. You can finally open your eyes, veins on fire, mind alight. The adrenaline rush.

“Woo, baby, feel that!” Tyler exclaims, jerking the wheel and throwing you against the door. “Yeah-ha! Woo!”