Page 9 of Breaking Through

The north trail had emptied out ahead of me. We'd officially passed the end of tourist season, and the weather forecast chased the stragglers away. Yellow warning tape fluttered from the trail markers I placed.

The old storm shelter hunched against a hillside, its concrete face softened by decades of moss and lichen growth. Inside, the air hung thick with memories and mildew. My flashlight beamcaught the faded murals—waves frozen mid-crash and storm clouds painted by hands long gone.

Someone had loved this place once and had seen beauty worth capturing, even in a utilitarian bunker. On my good days, I wished I had an optimistic mindset like that.

Tom had found me here three years ago, running my fingers over brushstrokes that hadn't entirely surrendered to time and dampness.

"Ah," he'd said, setting down his thermos. The coffee smell cut through the shelter's musty air. "I see you've discovered Isabella's work."

I remembered tensing at the unexpected company but covering it by tracing a painted wave's curl. "Isabella?"

"Isabella Harlow. She was Clark Harlow's wife—she helped restore these in '78." Tom had settled onto one of the metal benches, his manner casual in a way that had put me at ease despite myself. "Story goes, a local artist started them in the sixties. Fellow named Marcus Beltran. He was a sailor who lost his boat in a storm and nearly died out there on the lake. After they rescued him, he spent a month painting these walls. Said he had to capture the lake's power while it was still fresh in his mind."

I'd studied the violent waves in the painting, understanding that compulsion to capture something that had nearly destroyed you.

Tom continued his story. "But Marcus moved away before finishing them. The murals started deteriorating. That's when Isabella stepped in. She didn't stop at restoration—she added to them. See that?" He'd pointed to a quieter scene: early morning mist rising off calm water, painted with such skill you could almost feel the dawn's hush. "That's pure Isabella. She believed in showing the lake's gentler moods too. Beauty balancing power."

The memory faded, and I was back in the present, but Tom's words echoed in my mind: Beauty balancing power. My flashlight caught another of Isabella's additions—a young couple on the beach, his arm around her waist as they watched the sunset. She was so upbeat, like her grandson.

I clicked off the flashlight, plunging the shelter into darkness broken only by gray light seeping through the ventilation shafts. The building stood alone off the electrical grid.

I thought about the connection between past and present, between a woman who saw the lake's many faces and her grandson who sought beauty in unexpected places. The shelter suddenly felt too small, too full of ghosts, coincidences, and the weight of things I'd been trying to forget. I pushed the door open, letting in a gust of wind that carried the scent of approaching rain.

I shook my head and headed back into the gathering storm. I had work to do and preparations to make.

The wind tasted like rain and held the potential for destruction. Using my key, I checked the emergency supplies tucked behind a glass facade on the side of the building, counting batteries and bottles of water. Each item was in its place—order in the face of chaos.

My radio crackled. "Wade?" It was Tom. "Got hikers trying to wait out the weather in their tent up by Eagle Point."

"Tell them it's not optional." I was already moving, grateful for the distraction. "I'll help escort them down."

The campsite perched too close to Eagle Point's edge for comfort, even on a good day. Their tent, a vivid splash of blue against gray stone, whipped in the wind like it was trying to take flight. Two young men stood beside it, arms crossed, with the particular stubborn set to their shoulders I'd seen too many times before.

"But we drove six hours to get here," the taller one protested as I approached. His Patagonia jacket probably cost more than my monthly utility bills. "We can't just leave."

"You can and you will." I kept my voice neutral but firm, the same tone I'd used with rookies in Chicago. "See those clouds getting thicker out over the lake? That's what's left of Hurricane Olivia. It's pulling energy from seventy-five-degree lake water—warmest September temps ever recorded. The system's already dumped eight inches of rain in southern Indiana, and we're looking at as much as six inches here. "

The shorter one—red-haired, with an expensive camera hanging around his neck—gestured at their tent. "The tent's anchored really well. We used extra stakes and everything."

A strong gust caught the tent's rainfly, making it snap like a flag. I didn't bother hiding my grimace. "Those stakes won't mean much when this limestone starts crumbling. Last week's rain has left this whole ridge saturated."

"But—"

"Listen." I stepped closer, noting how the wind was picking up force. The first drops of rain would follow soon. "You seem like smart guys. So let me paint you a picture. That tent is going to act like a sail in sixty-mile-per-hour winds. The soil here is mostly clay over limestone. When it gets waterlogged—" I stomped my boot near the edge, showing how the ground had already started to turn spongy. "—it gets about as stable as wet cardboard."

The red-haired one's resistance wavered. "We didn't know about the clay."

"Most people don't. But I've worked this park for three years, and I've seen what storms do to this point." I paused, letting that sink in. "Two years ago, that chunk of cliff face collapsed." I pointed to a fresh scar. "Nobody was up here then. I'd like to keep our lucky streak going."

A particularly vicious gust yanked one of their tent stakes free. The fabric billowed upward, and both men jumped to grab it. Reality was making my point better than I could.

"Look." I softened my tone. "The Grand Harbor Hotel in town has vacancies. They sometimes offer special storm rates in situations like this. You'll have a dry bed, hot showers, and a front-row seat to watch Lake Michigan put on a show. The marina's lit up at night—the kind of view people usually pay triple for."

The taller one sighed, his resistance crumbling like the cliff beneath us. "You had me at hot showers."

"Smart choice." I pulled out my phone. "I know the owner. Let me make a call and see if I can get a discount locked in."

While I spoke with Carol at the hotel, the guys started breaking down their campsite. The wind tried to turn their tent into an impromptu kite, and I stepped in to help, my hands remembering the familiar motions.

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