July. Christmas lights glowing at night in the trailer park. A pink plastic flamingo stands in the yard next to a gravel driveway; an old Ford up on concrete blocks. Grass is tall and waves in the wind. Storms are coming.

He pulls back curtains and looks at gray clouds forming to the south. Temperature is dropping from pretty hot to just hot.

Probably gonna have one, he says. Turn on the TV. His wife stumbles over to the television and turns it on. The lines are wavy.

Damn it. Fix them rabbit ears, he demands as he walks over beer cans and empty buckets of chicken. Come on now. He wrestles with the antennae. A clearer picture comes in. It’s a weatherman in a  checkered suit pointing at a map of Arkansas around El Dorado.

Yep. Just like I thought. Tornado is coming. Go get in the bathtub, he orders his wife. Go on now.

Ain’t you coming?

I’ll be in there. Just do what I say.

The overweight woman makes her way down the hall and closes the bathroom door.

Leave it open, he yells. Give me a minute. Damn thing is forming. God damn. Look at that. It’s coming. The TV goes blank. A rush of wind breaks the windows. He’s knocked to the floor. The ceiling cracks and falls. Debris covers him. Cuts and blood on the kitchen tiles. He lays there. The strong winds have stopped.

Honey. You OK? She asks.

I can’t move.

What did you say?

Said. I can’t move. I think my legs are busted up pretty good.

Sirens are heard. Fire trucks and squad cars go past the trailer park. Clouds break. Sun comes out. Soon, it’ll be dark.