James Turnbow

The clear, concise directions were always a dead giveaway with him.

I'm held up here at the rig, but I'll be there quick as I can.

I love you, sweetie.

I grabbed my charger, a couple bottles of water, and the old canvas emergency bag we always kept by the garage door.

It was heavy and dusty, and had our last name written across the top in faded black sharpie.

The shelter was out back, just past the tool shed.

One of those concrete bunkers varied halfway underground with a slanted steel door.

I hated going down there even on nice days.

Musty, dark, always a spider crawling around.

But I was 17, home alone, and didn't want to die an Okie's death.

So I bolted through the rising wind, heart pounding, and ducked inside just as the first fat drops of rain smacked the ground like pebbles.

The little stairs were steeper than I remembered.

The soles of my worn-out converse made it difficult to navigate the slippery metal bars.

I jumped down off the last step.

The room felt smaller than the last time I had been there.

I pulled the door shut and cranked the latch until it locked with the shutter of metal on metal.

I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight.

The beam cut a white circle across the floor, catching on dirt and old spiderwebs.

I went to the middle of the shelter and grabbed the little metal chain that hung from the ceiling and gave it a tug.

The single bulb lit up.