Page 69 of When We Are Complete

“We’re gonna need you to help set up the shelter first. The storm’s coming in fast and heavy this afternoon.”

“Got it. I’m coming as soon as I can.” I end the call and push the covers back, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Wind howls outside, and suddenly I’m trying to shake off a memory that surfaces with unexpected intensity.

Another winter storm, all those years ago. I was eight, but I can still remember the way that storm rattled our windows, as though the whole world was falling down when the tree fell onto our roof and frigid air laced with snow and ice blasted through our living room. But the actual storm was just the start of it.

The aftermath saw constant, tense silences between my parents. Terse conversations held behind closed doors. My father spent endless hours after work sealing cracks, patching walls, and arguing with the few contractors he could afford about their bills.

But no matter how much overtime he took on, no matter how much of the work he tried to do himself, our debt kept getting bigger.

I’d sit at the kitchen table with Lucy, glancing at our dad, stony silent as he ate the meal my mom had tried to stretch with pasta or potatoes.

That year, and for a couple after it, the cupboards were emptier than I’d ever seen, and Lucy and I would huddle together under blankets, but nothing really cut through the coldness that had settled over our lives.

When the local church finally stepped in, offering supplies and volunteers to help rebuild, something had shifted in Dad—a door had closed, leaving a part of him on the other side.

I learned that winter that if you couldn’t keep a roof over your family’s head, you might as well not be there at all. And it’s not a lesson I’ll ever forget. Providing stability, keeping a home solid and safe—that’s always been the most important measure of my worth.

I shake off the memory and get dressed fast, grab a granola bar, and pour some kibble into Tiger’s bowl. Coat and gloves, and even a woolen hat, and I’m ready to go. My head needs to stay in the here and now—there’s a job to do, people to help. Thepast can stay buried where it belongs—this storm isn’t going to take over my life the way it took over his.

Glancing out the window: it’s already snowing lightly. I grab my phone and tap out a quick message to Kelly: “Thinking of you. Please stay inside, okay? I’ll call in a couple of hours.”

Next, I send a message to Jenny, checking if Adele can stay at her place tonight. The reply comes through almost immediately, and the pressure in my chest worsens: “Just headed out to check on my mom. I might need to stay there. Bill took the boys to his parents’ to see if they need any help. Any chance you pick Adele up before this afternoon? School’s closed so she’s chilling at my place.”

I exhale slowly, running a hand over my face. “Sure. I’ll pick her up sometime in the early afternoon. Can you call her and let her know? Busy morning. Stay safe.”

The moment I step outside, the cold slams into me. I zip up my jacket, pulling the collar up around my neck, but it does little against the biting wind. Snowflakes whip across my face, sharp and stinging, tiny needles.

I think of Kelly still at home, probably organizing her planner or tweaking festival details despite the storm. She’d be up early, determined as ever, focused on every detail. It’s one of the things I love about her—how she throws herself into her work, her passion.

It’s so cold, my breath fogs up instantly, each exhale hanging white in the air before being torn away by the wind. I shove my hands into my pockets, fingers already numb despite the thick gloves I’m wearing.

When I reach the high school, Patrick and the other Valiant Hearts boys are already working with the fire crew. They’re hunched against the gusts, eyes squinted, cheeks red from the bitter cold. We move without words, hauling portable generators from the back of a couple of trucks.

Patrick grunts under the weight of a generator as the two of us work together, his face set with that familiar, determined look. “Snow’s not letting up.” He glances up at the leaden sky. The clouds hang low, thick and unforgiving, smothering what little light there is.

“Yeah, it’s come on fast.”

“Once we get these to the gymnasium, I need you boys to go and offer assistance to those who might need it. I’ve got a list from the mayor and I’ve divided it up, so you’ve all got some names. I need to stay here and coordinate volunteers, who should be arriving soon. But will you go check on Joe Heart on my behalf?”

“Of course,” I reply. Patrick’s always felt a personal responsibility for Joe. He used to work with Danny before Danny died in that fire, and I’ve always suspected Patrick blamed himself for not being there that day, although he’s gotten better about not shouldering every responsibility since he fell in love with Emmy.

We press on, the wind howling, a living thing tugging at our jackets, the ground beneath us turning slick with frost and deepening patches of snow. The air has a sharp, metallic taste to it, and it’s a brutal kind of cold, one that hits deep.

Once the generators are offloaded, volunteers start arriving with donations and offers of help. Between hauling supplies and setting up the emergency shelter, my mind drifts back to Kelly. I wonder if she’s getting restless, itching to get out and keep working on the festival. I make a mental note to call her as soon as I can. There’s something calming about knowing she’s there, even if it’s miles away, an unspoken promise that all this cold and chaos can’t touch the life we’re building.

Patrick finds me and gives me a list of names—elderly people around town who might not have gotten the mayor’stext message alert, before he’s pulled away by something else needing his attention.

I get in my truck, driving carefully through the icy streets, until I find myself at Joe Heart’s door, the cold wrapping around me. The roof and yard is already covered in a layer of snow, windows fogged. I knock and Joe answers, his figure slouched. He’s in his fifties but looks older—life has worn him down, especially since Danny died and his marriage fell apart.

“Jake,” he says, his voice a rasp, breathing a struggle. He’s got on a faded hoodie stretched over a bit of a belly—his days at the shipyard are far behind him, and his face is deeply lined, with weary eyes set back under his brow. But there’s no mistaking the resemblance to Danny—the sharp nose, the dark eyes, the same quiet strength etched into his features.

“Hey, Mr. Heart, I just wanted to see if you got the message from the mayor. A severe snowstorm is on its way.”

“Yeah, I saw that.” He gives a resigned shrug.

“If you want to come to the shelter, I can give you a ride.”

He glances back inside his house. “I’m not really ready to go.”

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