9780008390662

the smell of a storm
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 backof-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.