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their loved ones and the safety of the town.
    Shelby sat down next to her father, who put his arm around her. But she was beside herself with worry about Emory. If she hadn’t been so selfish and unkind, he might be here with them now.
    The roaring noise grew louder and the ceiling began to shake. The twister, it seemed, was upon them. Screams fil ed the air. The basement lights went out, leaving only the points of flashlights. Overhead, the building groaned, fol owed by the wrenching, crunching noises of wood splintering and glass breaking. The wal s of the basement shook, sending items from shelves crashing to the floor. Shelby couldn’t hear her own heartbeat. She could feel her father’s mouth moving against her forehead, knew he was praying. She’d never been so petrified in her life.
    A terrible creaking noise sounded, then an explosion, and the stairwel fil ed with debris. Rubble rained down on them. If the beams gave way, they’d be buried alive.
    Shelby wondered if she would die…and thought how terrible it would be to perish before she could tel Emory that she’d made a big mistake. He would never know how much she’d loved him.

Chapter Seven
    Emory lay near the base of the water tower, facedown in a ditch with his arms over his head. He’d never been so scared in his life. The relief of hearing the aged sirens sound was quickly replaced by his need to get to lower ground. He’d scrambled down the ladder as fast as he could, then dove into a shal ow dip in the ground. Hearing the twister coming like a train bearing down was horrific because he didn’t know what would happen next. The ground shook and debris rained down on him. He could hear trees being ripped out of the ground, and waited for one to fal on him.
    Al he could think about was his dad and Shelby. Had his father headed home before the storm hit? And if he had, was that safer, or more dangerous? Shelby was probably stil at the grocery. Had she had time and the judgment to retreat to the supply basement? He felt utterly helpless, and crazy with worry.
    The Armstrongs had a root cel ar. If Porter had seen the funnel cloud or heard the sirens in time, he and his mother had a chance.
    The wind stil roared around him, worse than any sandstorm he’d ever experienced in Afghanistan. The force of it pressed him into the ground, squeezing his ribcage. He struggled to breathe and to keep his mouth and eyes closed.
    The most gut-wrenching part was envisioning what might be happening in the town below him. The buildings were old and not built to withstand a storm of this magnitude. Ditto for outlying homes, barns, and outbuildings.
    It was summer, so at least the school would be empty, and many businesses closed early. He kept trying to think of reasons to be hopeful that lives would be spared.
    He counted to himself—he’d heard that most tornadoes last only a couple of minutes. But more than eight minutes had elapsed and the wind didn’t seem to be diminishing in intensity. The sirens stil wailed, a plaintive cal beneath the howl of the storm, but he hoped it meant the water tower was stil standing. He didn’t want to lift his head to see and risk an injury. He needed to survive—he had to, so he could get to Shelby. If she didn’t love him anymore, he would have to live with it, but he had to know she was okay.
    He kept counting…ten minutes…twelve…fourteen…
    And then, as suddenly as it had descended, the wind dropped and silence echoed around him.
    Emory gingerly lifted his head, dislodging the soil and leaves that had covered him. Around him trees lay on the ground like a pile of pick-up sticks, their roots exposed. It was a marvel that one hadn’t crashed on him.
    But the more disturbing sight was the trail of furniture and appliances and clothes strewn over the forest floor. A footed white bathtub sat neatly on the ground, as if someone had deliberately put it there for an outdoor oasis. A soiled plaid couch sat on its end. And a