The howl on the other side of the shelter door is deafening, like some ancient deity come to furiously atone the sins of mankind. The heavy metal door groans and shutters under the whipping wind. Hail pings sharply and rain pounds relentlessly. I’m not afraid though. The screams of a tornado are as common in the springtime as the pungent blooms of the Bradford Pear, which is why everyone in this town has underground shelters, and nobody dares to plant a Bradford Pear. There are things that you learn here, that you weren’t born knowing, but you might as well have been. They’re pounded into your head from the moment you can read the scripture on the wall and eavesdrop while the mothers gossip in the kitchen and the men drink their beers outside. _You don’t bring store-bought food to the potluck. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t get tattoos or take the Lord’s name in vain. _And you don’t leave. When your Papa’s great-great grandpa staked his claim on a plot of flat, barren Midwest land, you stay. You stay to train the next generation of children you bear while you’re still young and impressionable. You live your miserable life a half a mile away from your cousins, and a quarter mile away from your grandparents. You finish high school, Lord willing, and you get a job at the town hardware store or the farmer’s market. You forfeit your dreams and your aspirations, and you drown your sorrow in moonshine and county fairs. Tornadoes don’t stay in one place for long, hellbent on ripping and scarring the Earth until they fizzle away. They’re born where they want and the die when they please, with no remorse for their actions. Our sirens have finished with their grating, low hums letting us know the destruction is finished, while the sirens a county over are just starting their warning call. People’s prayers for protection over their homes are finishing with a desperate amen, and mothers will weep and farmers will curse when they emerge to find their prayers unanswered. My prayers have been unanswered for twenty-two years. You get used to it. I reach above my head and twist the latch of the shelter, immediately drenching the cool dirt floor in sunlight. As I shove upwards, debris slides off the hatch and falls onto the sopping wet grass. My heart thumps in my throat and my eyes adjust to the afternoon sky. The trees that separate my property from Tim and Sherry’s property are splintered like toothpicks, with their leaves shredded and strewn clear across six acres. The backside of the grey wall cloud drifts on the horizon, dragging the green sky and all of it’s violence away with it. Our sky is clear, with the gentle April sun comforting us like Mama would after Papa drank too much whiskey on the porch. I crawl out of the bunker, mud oozing between my fingers and soaking through my pant legs as I clamber to my feet. My overalls are hanging off one shoulder and the tie holding the mess of hair on top of my head has slid down to the name of my neck. My fingers twitch and my knees wobble. I have to turn around. I have to see if my trailer is still standing. Squeezing my eyes tight, I shuffle my feet until the squall is miles behind me and my whole life is yards in front of me. Did the tornado show mercy, or did it think I deserve the wrath? Police sires sing in my ears as I mutter an empty prayer, and my eyelids slowly flutter open. The air in my lungs expels forcefully and hot tears begin to fall down my cheeks at the sight. It’s a disaster. The tan siding of my trailer home is peeled and entwined with the metal beams that held it all together, mangled and crumpled by the hands of Mother Nature. My belongings are scattered all over the yard, most of it unrecognizable, shreds of clothing and furniture hanging carelessly on tree branches and spikes of building material jutting out of the ground. I breath a shaky breath, and my lips curl. I smile. My chest heaves and my stomach squeezes with laughter. My prayer _was_ answered. The tornado _did_ show me mercy. I waste no time. I run. I run onto the street, the gravel crunching into fine powder under my boots. I pump my arms and suck in as much air as I can, my throat searing and my feet blistered and raw. The town square is eerily untouched, with only rain puddles on the side of the street and a few car hoods dented from small hail. The door to the bank jingles when I enter. A well manicured woman with a purple dress and thick, square glasses snaps her head toward the door and her face contorts in disgust, but she quickly relaxes. “How can I hel-“ “I need to withdraw two hundred dollars,” I bark, “please.” I give her my information and hurry out the door with cash in my hand. Will they miss me? Will my father cry? Will they conduct a search, and comb my property with flashlights and slick jackets? Will they hold a funeral, assuming that I was swept away like Dorthy, or will they know that I ran away to follow the yellow brick road? Thoughts swim in and out of my head as I board the bus and plop down in a stiff, blue seat toward the rear, with nothing but the clothes on my body, a wad of cash stuffed in my pocket, and hope busting at the seams. I’ll head to Oklahoma City first, and from there maybe Dallas or Santa Fe. The tornado has ripped my life to shreds and the endless possibilities filter through the remains in bright streams of freedom.