Page 68 of Praying for Rain

“April twenty-fourth.” Her voice is barely a whisper as I watch her face go through the entire range of human emotion, illuminated by the digital glow. Relief. Elation. Grief. Regret. Then, as the sound of approaching destruction begins to rise in the distance, pure, unfiltered dread.

The sound is like a never-ending car accident—metal scraping metal, crunching glass, and squealing steel.

And it’s getting closer.

“Pack your shit and get ready to run,” I snap, thrusting the phone into her hand. “Does your dad have any more guns?”

She nods blankly. “In the master closet.”

I run across the hall with my flashlight, holding my breath to cope with the lingering stench of death in the room. Throwing open the closet door, I shine my light in all directions, not knowing where to look. There are scrubs and shoes and suits and dresses and—

Bingo.

The light lands on a black briefcase sitting on the floor next to the door—the kind that takes a code to open. Luckily, I have the code—in the form of a pocketknife. Jamming my blade underneath the brass plate, I pop the case open in three seconds flat, and the sight inside takes my breath away.

A Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum. Six-inch barrel. Black with a wooden grip.

Rain’s dad must have been a Dirty Harry fan.

I lift the beast out of the molded foam cutout it’s nestled into and check the cylinder.

And it’s fully fucking loaded.

I shake my head in disbelief and kiss the barrel before tucking it into my holster.

For some reason, God likes me today. I hope I don’t fuck it up.

When I get back to Rain’s room, she’s kneeling in front of her open window, gripping the ledge as she waits for whatever the fuck is coming. Her backpack is on her shoulders, almost bursting, and I can see that she’s wearing a hoodie underneath it.

I cross the room and lean against the wall next to the window. “That sweatshirt had better not have a Twenty One Pilots logo on it.” I smirk.

Rain looks up at me with fear carved into her beautiful face. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

From here, I can see that the sweatshirt says Franklin Springs High.

Thank fuck.

I bend over and kiss her worried, wrinkled little forehead. “Try to relax, okay? The horsemen aren’t real. Whatever is coming, it’s human. And, if it’s human”—I pull the left side of my Hawaiian shirt open to show her my newest acquisition—“we can kill it.”

Rain’s shoulders sag as she gives me a brave nod. “Sit.”

She pats the carpet, and I notice a fresh bandage, antibiotic ointment, a pill, and a glass of water laid out on a paper towel beside her.

The sight makes me feel like I’ve been punched in the heart.

“Wes?”

I bite my lip and try to focus on the grinding, crashing, squealing noises approaching outside and not the stinging sensation behind my eyes.

“Baby, are you okay?”

Baby.

I’ve never been anybody’s fucking baby, not even when I was a baby. But, for some fucked up reason that I don’t understand, I’m hers. Maybe, one day, being treated like I matter won’t hurt so goddamn much, but I hope not. I hope it guts me every time, forever, as a reminder that this girl is a fucking miracle.

“Yeah,” I whisper, clearing my throat as I drop to my knees beside her.

Rain gives me a shy smile as she goes to work on my arm, jumping a little from the grinding, gnashing, crashing sounds getting closer outside. I pop the Keflex into my mouth and swallow it without taking my eyes off her.

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