By the time everyone else wakes up, I’ve calmed down. But the wind outside sure hasn’t.
It’s an early-fall Saturday, gusty, with scraps of sun. Clouds bouncing off each other like bunnies in a basket. Messages on the wind pouring in from everywhere. From dogs making their daily rounds, from feral cats, from anxious raccoons.
Basically everybody is asking the same thing: What is the deal with the weather today?
I already know. Weather channel was on last night, with a screen full of big, white, cotton-candy-looking swirls. Julia’s dad, George, has already taped up several windows. Sara, her mom, packed an emergency bag just in case we have to evacuate.
Another hurricane is on its way. Third this season. Not as big as the last couple, but slow-moving. I’ve seen the routine, know the ropes.
Once breakfast is done, I sit on the couch in the living room, waiting impatiently for Julia to come home so she can take me on our daily stroll. She has a dog-walking service, and she’s out walking other dogs.
I get my own private walk, ’cause she’s my own private girl.
I can practically taste the storm coming through the open window: the back-of-my-throat tingle, the metallic edge, the fizzy energy.
But it’s more than that. It’s as if the air is up to no good, sneaking up on the world and looking for trouble.