I squinted out, trying to see the sky. What if? seemed more real in the dark. Did tornadoes ever come at night? Dad’s footsteps squeaked on the stairs. “Daddy,” Isabella called sleepily.
“What?”
“I think I see a spider.”
What happened to spiders in tornadoes? Did they whirl up and up, trying frantically to spin a web?
Dad walked down the hall to Isabella’s room. I waited until he walked back. “Dad,” I called.
Dad made a kind of mfff sound, but he never really did get mad.
“What kind of safety warning system does Oakwood have?” I asked.
“A siren. We’d all hear it. Go to sleep, please.”
I sat on the bed like a stick with wide-open eyes, listening, the way Midnight listens when her ears go forward and the rest of her stays massively still. Was that a siren? Or just a car horn?
I got up and groped in my backpack until I found my Safety Notebook. Back on the bed, I squeezed it tightly.
Plan A, I thought. Plan B. Even those words made me feel better. Now where was my cat?
Dad was coming upstairs again. I quickly put my sleeping game face on. The door opened. I peeked at Dad lugging my suitcase in. I didn’t say anything, though. He would be proud if I could get to sleep.
When he was gone, I opened my eyes again and studied the shadows on the ceiling.
On the night when wildfires raced through the city and our house filled up with the college students from Dad’s church group, Jericho had been calm. She showed me her plan. She asked Dad if he would pray with them.
Dad was always being asked to pray. “Nothing special about a minister’s prayers,” he’d say. “All God’s children are equal pray-ers in the sight of God.” Still, he always did it. That made people like me a little out of practice.
But it was a good idea to get God on my team.
I closed my eyes. Dear God. I need my cat. Also please help Dad get the church over the hump quickly so we can go back to Colorado soon. Preferably by my birthday. I opened my eyes. I did realize my birthday was in five weeks. But still.
God could work miracles.
Should I have knelt and folded my hands? No. Jericho said God heard prayers anywhere and anytime. But she said it was wrong to expect God to do everything.
I closed my eyes again. P.S. I promise to do my part. Amen. Even Dad sometimes said “P.S.” But what was my part, exactly?
Don’t be evil and insincere. I knew that much.
Some people said God wanted everything: our hearts, our minds, and all the efforts of our hands, which seemed kind of drastic.
I sat completely still and waited to feel something. P.P.S. I thought. Please give me a sign that you heard.
Finally I opened my eyes. It was darker now. Dad must have turned off the porch light. I wished I could look for Midnight. Instead, I crawled over and found my sleeping bag and spread it out on the bed. There. The sleeping bag smelled like home. The sleeping bag said “temporary.”
I thought about Great-aunt Dorcas coming early. Would she bring cousins? I squeezed my eyes tight. People were always better prepared when they had a good night’s sleep. But how could I sleep without my cat?
Then I heard light, pittery feet.
Basically a miracle.
I took off my socks and rolled them into a sock ball and threw it as hard as I could. Midnight H. Cat tore after the ball. I giggled.
Suddenly I was full of good cheer. I didn’t even have to sleep in a pink room if I didn’t want to. I dragged my sleeping bag into the hall and wiggled into it. Midnight curled up on my long hair, purring.
Kids who said cats couldn’t retrieve things were flat out wrong. Kids who said cats freaked out when you took them to a new place could be wrong, too.
All was calm. All was bright.